


Tell Me The Reality Is Better Than The Dream

by Ricechex



Series: Duality [1]
Category: Alpha and Omega - Patricia Briggs, Mercy Thompson Series - Patricia Briggs, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, John's an Omega but not THAT kind of Omega, M/M, Mating, Sherlock could be the Alpha if he wanted to
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-06
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-13 05:45:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ricechex/pseuds/Ricechex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John Watson comes home from the war in Afghanistan, he does so with a bullet wound to his left shoulder, a, “mysterious,” limp in his right leg that he knows isn’t really so strange as his therapist thinks it is, and an infection that changes everything about him, right down to his very humanity.</p>
<p>In short, he comes home as a werewolf.</p>
<p>******</p>
<p>Fusion of Patricia Briggs', "Mercy Thompson/Alpha & Omega," world with BBC Sherlock - essentially, I'll be using the rules of Briggs' world, and applying them to Sherlock. There may be brief mentions of the characters from Briggs' books, but overall the two worlds won't be colliding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Here In The Darkness I Know Myself

**Author's Note:**

> I've got an Omegaverse kink. This, however, is **NOT** one of those stories. This is actual (relatively speaking) werewolf hierarchy. Alpha is a position - often won through actual fighting and power, where as Omega is a particular type of wolf - very rare, bordering on fairy tales in fact.
> 
> If you've never read Mrs. Briggs' novels, not to fear, it shall all be explained. If you have read Mrs. Briggs' novels, may I congratulate you on your impeccable taste in reading material. ;)
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy the story!

When John Watson comes home from the war in Afghanistan, he does so with a bullet wound to his left shoulder, a, “mysterious,” limp in his right leg that he knows isn’t really so strange as his therapist thinks it is, and an infection that changes everything about him, right down to his very humanity.

In short, he comes home as a werewolf.

One would think that being a werewolf would get him his ticket home. But no. At least, not directly. Being a werewolf was what got him shot. And getting shot was what made him a werewolf.

It was all a bit confusing, really, and John had never liked thinking about any of it. Which was why, on this cold, rainy January morning at half two, his subconscious took control and forced the images through his mind.

It started as it usually did - flashes of the desert, his squad, laughter and jokes and then… then came the gunshots, the explosions. They were scattered to the winds, hiding under large bushes with their hands over their heads like more flesh would stop armour piercing rounds.

And then they waited.

It took forever, the waiting. It always did, because you never really knew if you were done or not. Sometimes you’d pop up and hear nothing. Other times, you’d pop up and get shot at, or watch a friend fall under a hail of bullets.

Sometimes you felt like all you were doing was just waiting to die.

That time, death had not come for John. No, that time it had been a man.

He was British, tall and gritty and smiling like the sight of his fellow patriots cowering in the brush was the best thing he’d ever seen.

John had been hauled off, taken prisoner. In his dreams, he still felt the man’s hands on his biceps, felt the blows he landed and the blows that landed on him. Felt himself being outclassed and out-fought.

The punch that took his consciousness away still felt like a hammer crashing into the side of his head. He’d vaguely thought this was a very bad thing - your brain wasn’t meant to short circuit like that, it was dangerous, no matter how long or short it lasted.

Thankfully for him, it had lasted only long enough for his wrists to be secured behind his back. He’d blinked himself awake to feel rough sand on his cheek, a throbbing ache in his temple, and the pressure of zip-ties on his wrists.

He remembers being hauled to his feet and forced to march. The dream is always fuzzy about this, but when he’s awake he can remember it in it’s entirety.

What the dream never leaves out is the chair. The chair he’s sat in, completely starkers, duct tape wound about his wrists and ankles to keep him in place. He knows it’ll hurt to take it all off but even when he’s awake, he doesn’t remember the pain.

He can see the man. The man is staring at him and grinning. “Did you know, Cap’n, that I have great respect for you?”

John had glared. The man had laughed. “I do! Oh, where are my manners.” The man salutes him - it’s a proper salute, a good salute. John keeps glaring. “Colonel Sebastian Moran, at your service, sir!”

The man nearly falls over laughing then. “Not that I think you’re goin’ to care much in a few minutes.”

“That so?” John leans forward a few inches - all he’s got, with his hands taped to the chair.

The man - Moran - smirks. “It is.” He picks up a pistol from a long, thin table against the wall in front of John, looking it over. “See, I’m a hunter. And lately I’ve been bored of it all, stalking tigers and lions and everything else I’ve been able to find over three continents.” He snickers. “Not the same wild animals _you’ve_ chased over three continents, but I suspect I’ve had just as much fun as you have.”

John refuses to blush. After all, he _had_ enjoyed himself immensely.

“But lately… I’ve been chasing a rumour. A myth, even.” Moran turned, eyes flashing. “Turns out, it’s not so much rumour and myth as it is fact.”

John frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Moran leaned against the table, gun still in his hand. “Werewolves.”

John stared at him, silent for several moments. Moran watched him in return, gaze level. This was one of the clearest parts in the dream, because this was the moment that John’s life really, truly changed.

“You’re barking.”

Moran’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t laugh. “Fine choice of words. But you’ll think differently soon. Because you’ll know I’m right.”

John shook his head. “So you want me to believe you’ve got a werewolf? What, is it stashed in your bedroom?” John snickered. “Been wetting the carpet? Can’t seem to house-train it?” He laughed loudly.

Moran smiled in return, then rapped his knuckles against the wall.

The answering snarl sobered John in an instant.

“Look, you don’t… you don’t have to prove it, I… I believe you.”

Moran watched him.

“What do you even want to show it to me for, anyway?”

And then, Moran laughed.

“Who said I was trying to _show_ you anything?” Moran stalked forward, leaning over until his face was inches from John’s. “I told you, Cap’n. I respect you. And what better way to show you what you mean to me, than by giving you this… gift.” Moran grinned, predatory and dangerous. “And then hunting one of the only animals who can actually think like a human being?”

Moran straightened then, and John heard it again - a snarling, menacing growl just on the other side of the door.

And that was when he woke up, because after that…

He shivered, breathing hard, and fell back onto the pillow.

He hated to think about it. Hated remembering it. Hated having to keep it all to himself.

He winced as he felt his shoulder twinge - phantom pain, PTSD, it wasn’t real but his brain didn’t care, it still sent the signals, just like it was supposed to. He stretched and rolled over.

After another hour, he decided to get up. He wasn’t getting back to sleep, and he could at least check his email, make some tea. He grabbed an apple too, settled in. He opened the drawer on the desk, pulled out his laptop. He pointedly ignored the gun in the drawer. And he refused to think about the single bullet he had, stashed away in the back of the drawer. Just in case.

Email from Harry - nothing important, just saying that she missed him, and he should come ‘round for dinner on Sunday. He closed it and moved on.

Email from… McMath. His eyes widened and he opened it, scanning through it quickly.

They had to be careful - no one else could know right now.

He clasped his hands in front of his face and read.

 

_Watson :_

 

_How are you? How’s the leg? And the shoulder? I’ve been worried about that infection you and I discussed, hope you’ve been treating it. They’ve been talking about letting me come home for a while, bit of leave to get my head back together since everything. Been hell here lately, more so than usual. If I come back, I’ll ring you up, yeah? We could go for a run. Just like old times. Until then!_

 

_-McMath_

 

John smiled slightly, and typed out a quick reply.

 

_McMath:_

 

_They still let you use the computers? After last time, I was sure they were going to ban you permanently. Good to hear from you, though! Leg’s… well, it could be better, of course. Shoulder too. Infection is being treated, not to worry. You better call me if you come home, I could use a night out with a friend - don’t seem to have many of them these days. I do miss the runs we took - one of the only things to look forward to out there. Hope to hear from you soon!_

 

_-Watson_

 

John let his mouse hover over the _Reply_ button, then he clicked it before he could change his mind.

He sat back, closing his eyes.

He remembered Moran. Remembered the growling. He even remembered cream colored fur and snapping teeth. He remembered pain.

He remembered, " _Please, God... let me live... let me live..._ "

When he’d woken up, he was lying on his side, gasping for breath. No, not gasping. _Panting_. He was panting. His tongue… it was hanging out the side of his mouth… no, muzzle. He… _he had a muzzle_.

He’d startled, sand kicking up all around him as he got to all fours and glanced around, ears flicking to and fro. Scanning for danger.

He crouched down, trying to hide, trying to be small and inconspicuous. Which was extremely difficult, seeing as he was a rather large, rather fuzzy _wolf_.

He shook his head, felt the ruff around his neck shift slightly.

And then he pointed his nose in the air and inhaled.

A scent. Friends. Safety. _Move_.

He started trotting along, trying to figure out what he was going to do when he got to the base. Obviously, they weren’t about to let a dirty great wolf saunter in, tongue lolling out and canine grin plastered over his… muzzle.

Oh. That would take some adjusting to.

He kept on going, though, deciding he would worry about that when he came to it.

The sun was bright and blinding against the sand, and the wind was blowing bits of it into his face, but he kept up and soon, so soon it seemed, he was able to see the gates and fences of the base.

Which was when he heard the gunshot.

He heard it long before he felt it. It was loud and terrifying and he yelped and jumped as he saw it hit the sand in front of him, followed by blood.

His blood.

Another gunshot rang out, hitting just a foot to his left.

The pain blossomed then, finally. It felt hot, first. Hot, like someone had jabbed a heated needle straight through his body. And then it started to burn.

He ran, stumbled, yelped and cried, got back up. Gunshot - just behind him. His tail tucked between his hind legs and he snarled behind him, then limped as best he could out of the line of fire. He hurt, and ached, and the blood was still pumping and _Christ_ but it hurt. It had gone from heat to burning to actual fire, fire racing through his veins.

He ran as far as he could, until there was no chance he could move again. He dropped, panting and whining and thinking that this was it, this was the end. The last thing that went through his mind as he lay there was that at least his family would be able to stop worrying about him, now…

Of course, it hadn’t worked that way.

John opened his eyes, grabbed his coffee mug and drained it. Memories were potent things, especially now.

He grabbed his phone, turning it over and over in his hands as he sat back on his bed. It was dark here. Like that cave. That damned cave, the closest thing to home and comfort he’d been able to find out there, after…

He shook his head, placed his phone down on the table beside the mattress. He could see it - he could see the cave, all around him. It barely took any imagination.

He’d woken up naked and human, his shoulder throbbing, a dull ache rather than the all consuming pain of before. He looked around - his medical supply bag was there, not far from him. He felt sunburned and filthy and entirely unconcerned with any of it apart from discovering how he’d gotten to the cave, and more importantly, how he’d survived.

A noise near the mouth of the cave had him moving on instinct, rolling over and moving away, farther into the darkness. Pain bloomed and he felt his whole body contract, shift, lengthen. His bones broke and re-formed, his face shrunk and pulled out. His arms and legs changed, taking on grotesque shapes as fur sprouted everywhere. He tried to scream - It came out a howl.

The noise at the mouth of the cave stopped, and when John looked, he saw a familiar build.

McMath.

“Watson?” John growled. McMath stilled. “Oh. Shit.”

John crouched, eyes narrowed and body ready to move if needed. But he really, really, hoped he didn’t need to.

“Watson, listen to me.”

John’s ears swivelled forward but he made no sound. McMath took that as a good sign.

“You’re safe.”

John snorted. McMath laughed. “Alright. You’re still in a war zone, and… you’re a werewolf who seems to have found himself being hunted, and… seriously, I don’t even know how you did that, because I’m fairly certain you weren’t a wolf before.”

John growled again.

“Didn’t think so, mate. Listen. I need to look at your shoulder. I’m… shit, I’m not a doctor, not a medic, but I _can_ help you, Watson. I just need you to… you know, not try to kill me right now.”

John was silent.

“Please, Watson. I want to make sure you’re alright.”

McMath took a step forward.

John growled even louder.

“Watson, please.”

John kept growling, hackles rising.

“Take a deep breath.”

John stopped. He reared his head back at the strange order, but poked his nose into the air, snuffling.

And then he picked it up - a familiar undertone, something… off.

He sat up, head tilted as he watched McMath. He was…

John stood up, nails clicking softly as he crept forward. From his position, he could see McMath was smiling gently, lips tight together. No teeth. Teeth meant challenge.

John whined.

McMath startled slightly, head whipping around. “Jesus, that echo threw me off, couldn’t actually figure out where you were.”

John snorted again. McMath grinned.

“Shift back for me, let me check your shoulder.” He took another step.

John growled, low and steady and menacing. McMath was one of… them. Him. A werewolf. John had only met one werewolf so far. It had not been a pleasant experience.

McMath stepped back, sighing.

“Watson, I can’t… Oh. OH!” McMath nodded. “You think it was… It wasn’t, I swear, Watson… I didn’t do this to you.”

And with that, McMath began stripping out of his clothes.

John barked, once.

“You had to have seen the wolf that did this. You’d know their scent anywhere. I’m going to shift, and prove it wasn’t me.”

John sat on his haunches and watched, curious.

When McMath was completely undressed, he crouched low. The change came swift, a gentle ripple accompanied by a few quiet grunts as things shifted like water.

Before John was a dark brown wolf, crouched with his tail tucked and ears low. He lay down, muzzle on his front paws, and let out a soft whine.

John began to pace. Slowly he moved forward, continued pacing. Forward some more, closer and closer, until at last he was nearly nose to nose with McMath, who whined once more.

John timidly reached out and sniffed at McMath’s face, nudged the side of his head with his nose. McMath sighed, but subjected himself to the once over. John walked around him, sniffing everywhere.

Finally, John came back to sit in front of McMath. He tilted his head and let his tongue loll out in greeting. McMath sat up slowly, whining cautiously. John barked, a happy sound.

McMath looked at his clothes, then back at John. He whined softly, then crouched again. John backed away as the change rippled back over him again, and when it was through, he lay on the ground for several minutes, breathing rapidly.

John trotted over and grabbed his clothes, snagging them in his teeth. He stepped over and dropped them in front of McMath, then lay down and licked his face once.

McMath laughed, though it sounded more like a wheeze. “Shifting that… rapidly… back and forth… it’s an energy… drain.” He closed his eyes. “But… I need you… to shift… your shoulder… I need to… check it.”

John huffed, but backed away. He closed his eyes, hunched down…

And nothing happened.

He realised, suddenly, he’d never done this on command. He’d woken up after God only knew how long, already in his wolf form. He’d been shot, passed out. And woken up in human form. McMath’s breathing was slowing down, still deep and desperate but not quite so panicked.

John took a deep breath in through his nose, closed his eyes, and concentrated.

He felt a twinge, a slight ripple, and then… nothing. He opened his eyes, and he was no more human than he had been two minutes ago.

McMath was sitting up now, slipping his clothes back on gingerly. John howled quietly, and McMath looked up. “Watson?”

John whined again, and McMath crawled over to him.

“Trouble shifting?”

John nosed the side of McMath’s face, and McMath scratched at his ruff. “Don’t worry, it happens to most wolves of a certain age…”

John growled, and McMath laughed. “It’s a joke, relax.” He kept ruffling John’s fur. “No, seriously, relax. That’s the first step. Take a few breaths, think about being human, concentrate on being human, project that image outward. It’ll be hard, but you just have to keep trying.”

He shifted away, and John huffed in irritation. Then he closed his eyes and willed himself to relax. He thought about himself as a human, thought about his short blond hair and his brown-blue eyes and his short but strong arms with surgeon’s hands, steady even in the battlefield. He thought about his legs and his feet and playing rugby in school. He thought about sex and drinking and laughing and kissing a pretty girl and clapping a friend on the back.

Then he felt it.

It was horrible and painful and when he came out the other end, he was screaming through abused vocal chords, hoarse and miserable. But he was human.

He fell over, gasping and looking around, disoriented. His eyes finally fell on McMath, who was also laying on the ground, face flat against the hard surface of the cave floor.

“Welcome back, Captain.”

John wheezed. “At ease.”

McMath chuckled. “Aye, sir.”

John closed his eyes. “If you salute me while I’m buck-fucking-naked, I will have you on toilet detail for a month.”

McMath snorted. “Duly noted. Clothes?”

“God yes.”

McMath moved slowly, backing away and keeping his eyes averted. He returned moments later, holding out fatigues. “Sorry, you’ll have to go commando, commando.”

John groaned at the horrible joke, and sat up. “I’ll forgive you if there’s a shower in that bag.”

“No such luck. But I might have smuggled a beer out.”

“Bless you, my son.”

McMath held out a hand and helped John up, then helped him manoeuvre his legs into the trousers, held him steady while he fastened them up. John looked up at him gratefully, and McMath again averted his eyes.

“Why do you do that?”

McMath glanced up, then away again. “You… you don’t… oh, this is going to be fun.”

John frowned, and McMath grabbed a beer from his bag, handing it over.

“Ta.”

McMath nodded, then gestured at a spot near the bag. “Take a seat, lemme look at your shoulder.”

John moved over, sat down, and opened the beer.

McMath grabbed a penlight, shining it over John’s shoulder. John risked glancing at it - it wasn’t pretty, but it was healing. “Shouldn’t I be, I dunno… Superman or something?”

“The bullet was silver.”

John gave him a bemused expression. “Silver? Really? Isn’t that just… Hollywood, making things up?”

McMath glanced at him as he reached into the bag. “Where do you think they got it from?”

“Books, stories.”

McMath grinned. “And where do the stories come from, I wonder?”

John’s expression sobered, and he decided this was the perfect time to take a long drink.

“No silver - it’s bad all around. Poisonous, especially when it’s embedded in us.”

John nodded thoughtfully, then looked down as McMath began cleaning off his shoulder. “Were you… I mean, you seem… well adjusted.”

McMath paused, then went back to the task at hand. “I’m part of the London pack.”

“There’s an actual pack?”

McMath shrugged. “There’s a lot of packs. Most major cities have one.”

“Shut up, no.”

McMath nodded. “We’re more common than you think.”

“Jesus.”

“I know. It’s a lot.”

“It’s more than a lot. So much fucking more than _a lot_.”

McMath said nothing, but he crouched a little lower.

“Why are you doing that?”

McMath looked down at John’s leg, then back up. “Submission.”

John’s eyes narrowed, then went wide. “What, you mean… like-”

“No. Not sex.”

John let out a breath. “OK. Good. Then…what?”

McMath smiled softly. “Where do you think the BDSM style cultures got the idea of Dominant and Submissive? Animals. Animals have a hierarchy. _We_ have a hierarchy.”

John inhaled shakily. “Right. Alphas and… Betas, and…”

McMath gave him a half shrug. “Sort of. Each pack has one Alpha. And one Beta. And from there… the hierarchy is determined based on dominance. I… am not dominant.”

John frowned. “What? But you’re… you’re so confident and… and outgoing, and…what?”

McMath bit his lower lip as he flashed the penlight over John’s shoulder, and moved to the back to start the process over again. “Being outgoing and confident doesn’t equal dominant. Being a dominant wolf makes you willing and ready to take on the responsibility of ruling a pack, even if you’re not the Alpha.”

“And… you can tell I’m… dominant?”

McMath stood up behind him, walking back to the bag and pulling out a few more items. He turned back to John and shook his head. “No. I can tell that you’re even more than that.”

Even now, sitting in another country, John still didn’t have any idea what that meant. Four months into a life sentence, and he was no closer to understanding what McMath had said about him. He hadn’t elaborated. Hadn’t said anything else. Had simply said not to worry about it, that he’d send a message to the London Alpha and let him know about John.

John trusted him, but he’d been home for almost two weeks now, and he’d heard nothing from anyone but McMath on the subject of his new… status.

He went to the small kitchenette, fixed another cup of coffee, and sat back down at his computer.


	2. You Make It Hard To Breathe (It's As If I'm Suffocating)

The morning was cool, crisp, and smelled delightfully watered down. John nearly smiled as he stepped out of the building that housed his depressing bedsit, and looked about, careful not to let his nostrils flare too wide when anyone was looking.

It was still an odd sensation, taking things in via scent first and foremost. He wasn’t sure he’d ever adjust to it.

He gripped his cane and limped to the curb, signalling for a taxi. It took nearly three minutes, but finally one stopped and picked him up. He rattled off the address to his therapist’s office, and settled back, closing his eyes.

_“How’s your blog going?”_

That would be her first question. It always was, right after the pleasantries of _Hello, how are you, dreary weather we’re having, isn’t it?_

And he’d answer with something meaningless, _Fine, good, great._ She wouldn’t believe him, and he’d smile at her. The smile would be as meaningless as his assurances.

She’d do her best to chastise him gently, but she’d be disappointed. She was always disappointed. And John always showed her how little he cared about that.

Then they’d move on to talking about his leg, and his shoulder, and just why _did_ he have a psychosomatic limp? Was the tremor in his left hand a result of the gunshot, or something else? How was he sleeping? Were the nightmares going away?

And the worst of all: had he been taking his medication?

The truthful answers to these questions were remarkably simple: The limp wasn’t entirely psychosomatic, he’d broken it. The tremor in his left hand was a result of silver burning through his body and doing mild damage to his nerves, which manifested as a tremor. He wasn’t sleeping much at all, and the nightmares were definitely not going away.

And no, of course he wasn’t taking his medication. There was no point - his metabolism was too much for it now.

But he’d sit there and tell her he forgot, rather than that he’d flushed it all away. Or he’d tell her he took them, but they weren’t working for him. He’d suggest that he just stop taking them - he’s a doctor, he knows how bad it can be to take medication that doesn’t work for you.

She’ll have none of it, of course.

The cab stops, and he hands the driver the fare plus what tip he can afford. A grunt and a nod, and John steps out, leaning on his cane as he shifts around to close the door.

He looks up at the building and sighs heavily. Forty-five minutes of dancing around the truth, here he comes.

  
 

* * *

 

 

When he stepped back out of Ella’s office, he took in a deep breath. It was drying up a bit now, but there was still a slight chill in the air as he started down the street. He grimaced as he walked, but he was determined to prove her wrong.

All in his head. No. It wasn’t all in his head. He knew that because he still remembered the pain of it, the agony of knowing that he was healing, and that he was healing _wrong_ , and being utterly unable to do anything about it.

Traffic - both vehicular and pedestrian - seemed light as he walked, which was a small mercy, and before long he was stepping into a park. It was familiar, comforting, like the sound of your favourite lullaby or the warm scent of clean sheets as you lay down to sleep.

He stopped at an empty bench and sat down, looking out over a tiny lake. Young children were feeding ducks, their parents chatting with coffees in their hands and smiles on their faces.

He closed his eyes and ran his right hand over his thigh, letting out a minute groan at the ache.

The fall should have killed him. Would have killed him, if he’d been human.

He’d been running - which had become code between him and McMath, meaning they were in their wolf form - and he’d slipped. Miscalculated one simple thing.

He was still MIA, still presumed captured by the enemy. His shoulder was almost entirely better now, the poison of the silver vacant from his body and the nerves mostly functioning. It was, in the end, those few dead nerves - the ones that still twitched intermittently down into his left hand - that had been his downfall as he’d jumped from one rocky outcropping to another.

He’d fallen farther than he could ever have imagined. He was lucky he hadn’t broken his back, or worse, his neck. But no, it had been his right leg that had cracked, buckling under his weight and an awkward angle. He’d nearly screamed, managing only a distressed yelp as he tried to limp to safety, but it had been nearly futile. He was in no position to move.

So he shifted.

The thing he learnt about shifting in that moment was that it was a rather lovely way of speeding along the healing process. Not so good, however, when your leg hasn’t yet been set.

And so when he shifted into human form, he’d inadvertently set his leg wrong. And it began to heal that way.

He’d scrambled back to his cave, his safety, as carefully as he could, trying not to put his weight on his bad leg.

Then he’d shifted back to wolf, and howled.

An hour later, McMath was there, looking around frantically. “Watson?”

“Here.” John grit his teeth and waved his hand in a patch of light. He was breathing hard and gripping his thigh. “My leg. I fell.”

“Shit.” McMath was at his side in an instant, fingers tentative and gentle as they felt along John’s thigh. “Hell, you really did a number on it, Watson.”

John nodded. “You have to re-break it. And then set it properly.”

McMath stared at him. “I… I can’t do that, I’m not a medic-”

“You fixed my shoulder. Saved my life. Now I need you to save my leg.”

McMath blew out a long breath, then nodded. “Alright. You… You got anything to bear down on?”

John grabbed his teeshirt and nodded, biting onto it.

McMath felt along his leg again, then looked up into his eyes. John wiped at the sweat slipping into his eyes.

“On my count of three.”

John nodded, teeshirt still clenched between his teeth.

“One.”

CRACK.

John screamed against the teeshirt, thrashing and nearly biting straight through the rolled up fabric..

“Two.”

John felt the bone slide back together correctly. Tears were leaking from the sides of his eyes, which were squeezed tight shut.

He felt fabric against his leg, and cracked his eyes open to see McMath using his own shirt to bind John’s leg. When he was done, McMath looked up at him with a soft, sad smile.

“Three.”

John’s head fell back against the ground, and he yanked his teeshirt from his mouth, panting and crying and suddenly remembering that he was both filthy and naked.

Well. As if this day couldn’t get any better.

John opened his eyes and gasped, leaning forward. He ignored the people walking around him, ignored everything that didn’t involve deep, non-panicked breaths and a blessedly clear mind.

When he looked up again, a breeze came up from the lake, rushing over his heated skin and helping to ground him in reality.

He had to give Ella this - she was at least right about the PTSD. Just not for the reasons she believed.

He leaned back, looking up at the sky. It was mostly blue, with a few grey clouds here and there. John wasn’t certain if it was just from the earlier rain, or if it was trying to rain again. Both, most likely. That was London, it seemed.

He settled his face into what he hoped was a determined expression, grabber dip his cane, and gingerly levered himself off of the bench. Right. Enough reminiscing. Time to figure out… something. Anything. Find a job. Get a girlfriend. Don’t tell anyone he was a werewolf. Simple. Easy.

And perhaps, while he was at it, he could hit the lottery and be set for the remainder of what, McMath had assured him, would likely be a very long life, barring things such as hunters or madness.

Madness. There was something John was sure he had already. After all, he was a werewolf limping through London. It was downright laughable.

He was just about halfway through the park now, the irritatingly normal sound of his cane _kuh-clinking_ along with every other step, when he heard someone say his name.

“John!”

No. There must be loads of Johns in London. Hell, there were probably a dozen other Johns in this park alone, at least. No, couldn’t have been meant-

“John Watson!”

No.

No, who… who would…

“It’s me, Stamford. Mike Stamford.”

Mike. Oh. _Oh_. “Yes, sorry.”

“Yeah, I know, I got fat.”

“No.” What? Why did he say no. Mike wasn’t wrong.

“I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at, what happened?”

The smile. The earnest look, the curiosity. Mike. _I remember you. We studied together. We ordered crap pizza and drank horrible beer and I couldn’t believe it when we made it through our classes. You had a girlfriend named Karen who tried to sleep with me. I never told you that, I should have told you that._

Smile. Glance at the cane. “I got shot.”

Mike’s smile faltered. John kept smiling.

John was about to take his leave - it was easy, when he mentioned his injury. People never wanted to know about it. They were sympathetic, they were understanding, and they gave no fucks whatsoever about how or why it had happened. He was in the army. What did he expect? They may as well have said, “ _You know, going out there, dressed like that, you were asking for it._ ”

“Oh. God, I’m… Christ, John, are you alright? Oh, stupid question.” Mike’s eyes darted back and forth between the cane and John’s eyes. “Can I… buy you a coffee?”

John was taken aback. He nodded slowly. “Alright. Where’s… good? I haven’t, well…”

Mike grinned. “The Criterion’s still nearby.”

John smiled. It was soft and not very deep, but it was at least real. “God, haven’t been _there_ in ages.”

“It’s gotten better.” Mike walked back to the bench he’d been having his lunch at, and grabbed up the paper bag and newspaper. “They have decent food now, too.”

“Wonder how they managed that.”

Mike laughed, and they walked together comfortably.

The Criterion had, indeed, changed for the better. John smiled at the girl working the register, even flirted a bit as he asked her about the menus options. In the end, he settled for a simple medium coffee, no room for sugar and milk. Mike grabbed the same, with room for milk in his, and they made their way back outside and into the park.

Topics of conversation started safely enough. The weather (dreadful), overpriced coffee (dreadful), overpriced movies (dreadful), John’s dismal dating life (dreadful and depressing), Mike’s wife starting a new job (wonderful), Mike’s current job…

“So, you’re still at Bart’s, then?”

“Yeah, teaching now. Bright, young things like we used to be.” John remembers all too well. “ _God_ , I hate them.”

John gives a small chuckle, and sips his coffee.

And finally, the topic rolls around to the cost of living in London these days (especially dreadful).

“So…” Mike looked almost sad. “You’re just… staying in London, until you get yourself sorted?”

John frowned. He felt like it had become his default facial expression anymore. “Can’t afford London on an army pension.”

“And, you couldn’t bear to be anywhere else.” Mike was grinning, like this was a big secret that John had simply forgotten - of course he wanted to stay in London. The problem was, he _couldn’t_ stay in London. “That’s not the John Watson I remember-”

“Yeah well I’m not the John Watson…” John cut himself off. Stupid, stupid. His right hand grabbed his coffee as his left hand twinged, almost as though his body were rebuking him for saying anything at all about being different. Mike looked away, and for once, John actually appreciated his PTSD - a convenient excuse for his oddities now.

He thought about apologising, but Mike spoke again before he could. “Couldn’t Harry help?”

John scoffed. “Yeah, like that’s going to happen.” Moving in with the alcoholic sister who’d just left her wife? Yes, good. Because that wouldn’t stress him into shifting. Never mind the funny looks he’d get when he popped off for days at a time each month, with only the vaguest explanations. Yes. That would be simply perfect.

“I dunno… you could, get a flat share, or something?”

Huh. Mike was really trying to make this happen, wasn’t he?

“Come on.” John forced a closed-mouth smile. “Who’d want me for a flatmate?”

He looked away, certain his point had been made.

Instead, Mike _laughed_.

John’s head whirled back, expression bewildered. “What?”

“Well you’re the second person to say that to me today.” Mike was grinning, looking for all the world as though he’d just won a prize.

John stared at him, a bit of trepidation creeping into his mind. “And who was the first?”

  
 

* * *

 

 

The first thing John notices as they walk into St. Bart’s is the smell.

Everything - _everything_ \- smells as though it was dipped in bleach, then rinsed off with bleach, and finally given a nice rub down with some soothing bleach. And perhaps handed some bleach cologne to spritz on at leisure.

He closes his eyes and winces. It’s too much, far too much for him now. “Mike, have you got a paracetamol? My head…”

“Oh yeah, just here.”

Mike steps into a small office and tosses John a little white bottle of painkillers. John is grateful, because this way he can take as many as he needs without having to explain it. He shakes five pills into his hand and knocks them back, swallowing quickly. “Can I… just take a couple more? Just in case…”

Mike nods and grabs some folders from a cabinet. “Yeah, sure, no problem.” John dumps several more into his hand, shoving them into his pocket. Mike turns around as John caps the bottle and hands it back. John notices Mike has taken off his coat and hung it over the back of his chair. He looks more relaxed, now that he’s inside, in his element. He smiles brightly. “Want to come see the lab? I’ve got a few things to take care of, then I can show you around a bit more." John nods.

The second thing John notices about St. Bart’s is that, despite fresh paint and fresh linoleum and maybe even new doors on most of the rooms, it’s still the same damn hospital he did his first exams in, his first vaccinations, his first so many things. It’s comforting in minor ways and devastating in other, more important ways. He’d been human the last time he’d walked in here. He’d smelled the bleach then, but it hadn’t assaulted his nose like it had today, burning away at his senses until his head felt like it might explode. At least the paracetamol was beginning to work. Rapid absorption and metabolism were another perk to being a werewolf. The dosage he’d taken should last him for about half an hour, forty-five minutes if he was lucky. Which should be plenty of time to get out of here.

The third, and perhaps most vital thing John noticed about St. Bart’s, was that there was another werewolf in the lab Mike was bringing him to.

At first John felt a stab of panic - did Mike know? Why hadn’t he said anything? Was he going to end up in a fight? _God_ , he couldn’t bear the idea of shifting here, in St. Bart’s, in front of Mike. The scent was stronger, and John felt a pang as he realised he could _smell_ the dominance of this other wolf. His breath got shallow and fast, yet he kept quiet, not wanting to alarm Mike.

But as they got closer and closer, his mind caught up and chastised him. Of _course_ he wasn’t going to end up fighting another wolf here. He’d be polite and courteous and he wouldn’t issue a challenge. The other wolf should have no reason to challenge him - he wasn’t here to take territory, he was just… trying to survive.

McMath’s voice rang out in his ears. “ _You’re even more than that._ ” If he’d been a wolf, his ears would have perked up. Maybe… maybe he could get some answers. Maybe he could figure out just what McMath had meant.

“He should be in here.”

“What?”

Mike chuckled and looked back as they stepped up to the door. “I told you. The bloke who’s looking for a flatmate.”

John stared at him blankly for a second before nodding and feigning a smile. “Oh yes, right. Sorry.” He gestured to his head. “Still just a bit…”

Mike nodded. “You’re alright, right John?”

“Yes, of course.” John made himself smile wider, keeping his lips together. Don’t show teeth, sign of aggression. Don’t stare too long, sign of aggression. “Well, don’t keep me waiting too long. I want to see what’s become of the place.”

Mike smiled, and turned the handle.

He held the door for John as John stepped through, glancing around.

There was one other person in the room, who was positively reeking of dominant werewolf. He was staring at John out of the corner of his eyes. It was not a particularly friendly look, but John couldn’t say it was unfriendly either.

This would take some getting used to. John avoided his gaze for the time being, trying to project an image of head down and tail tucked. No threat, nothing to see, move along.

“Bit different from my day.”

Mike laughed. “Oh, you’ve no idea.”

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.”

John raised his eyebrows at the tone. It actually sounded as though this - man, John was just going to call him a man and be done with it, honestly - as though this man was _asking_ for something. The way he smelled, John was certain asking permission to use someone’s phone was one of the last things on his mind normally.

Mike looked a bit put out. “And what’s wrong with the land-line?”

The man’s head gave a quick tilt, a strange approximation of a shrug as he spoke, his voice low and bored sounding. “I prefer to text.”

Mike patted his pockets, then grimaced. “Sorry. It’s in my coat.”

Which he’d left in his office, draped on his chair, because John had been handing him back the painkillers. Right.

Well, what could the harm be in letting the man use his phone? It might help reinforce the idea that he wasn’t a threat, wasn’t a challenge.

“Uh, here.” He reached into his pocket, looking back up. “Use mine.”

“Oh.” The man looked at him - no, he was _staring_. Staring at John as though he was the only thing in the room. “Thank you.”

He stood up and walked towards John. John’s mind raced as his eyes refused to move away from the other man’s eyes. He stared at him and saw his wolf form there too, overlapping everything and somehow… somehow it still looked right.

The man took his phone and clicked it open, standing much closer than John would normally like. However, nothing about this man this moment, this situation even, was normal.

John wasn’t paying attention - he was far too busy having the most exquisite filthy thoughts he’d even had in his life. In his mind, Mike was gone, there was no equipment on the desk, there was only him and this stranger, devoid of clothing and rutting against each other.

He could hear his name being gasped between those sinful lips. Could hear desperate pleas and genuine affection and promises he could scarcely believe from anyone, let alone a man he’d only just met.

Which was why what he actually heard was so surprising.

“Sorry?”

The man looked at him, eyes locking on his with an intensity that was staggering. “Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Af… ghanistan. Sorry, -”

“Ah, Molly, coffee.”

John felt his phone shoved back into his hands, and he stood there for a moment as he felt the warmth of another person at his back. He hadn’t smelled her, this… Molly. Hadn’t smelled the coffee. Hadn’t even heard the door open.

 _What was wrong with him_?

The man was walking away now, saying something about a mouth being too small… _his_ mouth? No. No, it… it was Molly’s mouth.

Oh God, he was talking to him again. What was he saying?

“I’m sorry, what?” Yes, that should make an impression. Can’t even pay enough bloody attention to hear him the first time. Twice. Well done, Watson.

“I play the violin when I’m thinking, sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmate's should know the worst about each other.” The man smiles. John feels lightheaded, overwhelmed by the way that smile seems to mean there’s not question that John will live with him…

John can’t think of what to say. He looks at Mike, who’s grinning. “You told him about me?” No, he couldn’t have done, he’d never grabbed his mobile while they’d been out having coffee, he’d not so much as glanced at a land line. But then how…

Mike shook his head solemnly. “Not a word.”

John frowns, shifts a bit. “Then who said anything about flatmates?”

“I did.” The man’s putting on his coat, shrugging into it with a practised ease born of constant repetition. “Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan.” He smiles as he winds a scarf around his neck. John is simply proud of the fact that he hasn’t started drooling, because he knows there’s no way he’s going to stop staring. “Wasn’t a difficult leap.”

“Yes, how did you know about Afghanistan?” John shifts again, looking down. Perhaps this is just how he reacts to an incredibly dominant wolf? He doesn’t know, but he rather hopes he’s not like this with the next one. If there _is_ a next one.

“I’ve got my eye on a nice little place in central London, together we ought to be able to afford it. We meet there tomorrow evening, seven o’clock.” He was looking at his phone, a bit agitated - probably at the lack of signal. He finally looks up at John as he steps closer. “Sorry, got to dash - think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

He walks past and John wants to grab him, yank him back and kiss him, maybe shout at him for being so damn presumptuous, then kiss him again. He turns, glaring. “Is that it?” He doesn’t even try to keep the bite out of his voice.

The man pauses and turns, hands going to his pockets. “Is that what?”

John gives a humourless snicker. “We’ve only just met, and we’re gonna go and look at a flat?”

The man looks back at Mike, as though he’s not sure what Mike was thinking in bringing John here. His eyes track back to John, and he smirks. “Problem?”

John regards him coolly. “We don’t know a _thing_ about each other. I don’t know where we’re meeting. I don’t even know your _name_.”

And yet, John was still having rather vivid imaginings of some extremely sordid moments between the two.

The man’s gaze went distant and calculating as he glanced John over. “I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him - possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?” At which point the stranger spun away and stalked towards the door.

John had felt sicker and sicker as the man had rattled off bits of John’s life like it was common knowledge. Coupled with the distracting and frankly alarming need to become more carnally acquainted with him, and it was enough to have John nearly trembling.

The man stopped just as he was stepping through the door, and popped his head back in. “The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street.” He winked rather cheekily. “Afternoon.” And then he was gone.

John stared after him in disbelief, then at Mike.

“Yeah.” Mike looked positively gleeful at having sprung this Sherlock Holmes on an unsuspecting John. “He’s always like that.”

John stood there, staring at the door again.

Well, this would likely end badly for him.

  
 

* * *

 

 

[ _If brother has green ladder, arrest brother. -SH_ ]

John was still staring at his phone, despite now sitting in front of his computer again. He turned it over in his hands, trying to understand. He glanced back at his computer screen, setting his phone down and resigning himself to the ever classic _Google_ search.

After an hour, he’d turned up Sherlock’s website - _The Science of Deduction_ \- and little else. A mention of him as a consultant in a few police cases, but only just the mentions. No photos anywhere, no description of just _what_ he was consulted for. The near-absolute lack of information seemed terribly at odds with someone who spouted out facts - most of which he had no right nor reason to know - in a near constant stream. It was all a bit maddening for John, who was feeling both more curious and more frustrated by the whole thing.

Dinner was pasta, one of the only things John could really afford in the quantity he tended to eat, and cheap beer that did little to help him relax. He glared at the bottle in his hands as he sat on his bed, staring at the wall. He’d need the rest of this pack, plus another pack or two, before he could get drunk.

Damn this whole thing. Werewolf metabolism might be a blessing in regards to his waistline, but it was hell in other ways. He sighed and finished the bottle, chucking it into the trash and stripping out of his shirt and trousers. He grabbed the pyjamas he was most fond of, slipping them on and closing his eyes. He took three long, deep breaths, breathing in and out slowly.

He made his way carefully to the bathroom, brushing his teeth and washing his face. He grabbed a small plastic cup and rinsed his mouth, then took a small drink of water. His bed was comfortable enough when he lay down on it again, and he went back to focusing on his breathing.

Routines. Everything in his life boiled down to routines, it seemed. Perhaps that was why the day had seemed so… _interesting_.

John stared up at the ceiling, his emotions so scattered and confused he wasn’t sure what he was feeling. This was the part where Ella would tell him to find _one_  and focus on it, let it draw him into the next, and so on. She’d want him to close his eyes, take more calming breaths, and _talk about it_.

John was not good at _talking about it_. John was very good at _ignoring it completely_. And apparently, that was wrong.

John scrubbed his hands over his face. “Alright. I should talk. So here I am. Talking. To _myself_.”

He licked his lips and narrowed his eyes.

“I’ve never fancied a bloke before. Well… once, but I was very drunk and when I sobered up I was… well, I was horrified.” He rolled his shoulders a bit as he lay there. “He was good looking, I suppose, but… the idea of being with another man was… _not_ a turn on.”

He rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. Ella would probably be thrilled that I’m talking and absolutely furious that it wasn’t _her_ I was talking to.”

He focused on the ceiling again, heaving a harsh breath through his nose. “So, never been into blokes before. And now…”

He tipped his chin up, as though through sheer willfulness he could stop the images he’d had in his head since meeting Sherlock Holmes.

“Now I think I might never look at anyone else ever again.” His voice was soft, and he squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t… I don’t even know him, but he’s there, in my head, and… and _Christ_ but I sound mental now, talkin’ about some other bloke in my head. I do, don’t I?” He opened his eyes again.

The ceiling said nothing. To its credit, though, the silence was entirely non-judgemental.

John closed his eyes again and shook his head. “I didn’t think I’d ever… I mean, I…” He puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled. “I know that if I woke up tomorrow and heard it had all been a dream… I’d be disappointed.”

He rolled over, pulling the blanket up to his shoulders. “Alright. I’ve shared. That’s enough for the next year or so, don’t you think?” He reached out and clicked off the light.

The ceiling remained quiet. John didn’t mind in the least.


	3. Easy To Find What's Wrong (Harder To Find What's Right)

It was hot, and sandy, and there was just enough a breeze to tickle the ruff of John's neck. He narrowed his eyes and stuck his nose in the air, sniffing eagerly.

And there - he caught it, that scent. It was familiar. It was comforting. He yipped and started running, paws fumbling for traction on the overly warm and fine sand. He found a rhythm and settled in.

He was getting closer - the scent was strong and growing stronger, when something darted in front of him, something dark and dangerous and it smelled like  _home_.

He stopped, nearly toppling over, head whipping towards the dark blur. It was another wolf - dark, almost black fur, and piercing eyes.

He knew this wolf without ever having seen it.

 _Sherlock_.  _Mate_.

He stood there, staring, as Sherlock did the same. Cautiously, Sherlock began to move closer as John paced a few short steps in either direction, howling so softly it was almost a whine.

And then they were nose to nose, watching and sniffing. Which was when John got a shock.

Sherlock laid down in front of him, and whined.

John glanced around and growled, prowling around Sherlock protectively as he did so, glaring into the empty expanses around them.  _Mate. Safe._ He'd be damned if anything or anyone would get past him.

"That's sweet."

He turned, eyes meeting those of Colonel Sebastian Moran. His head dipped low and he snarled, keeping himself between him and Sherlock. There was a rifle - high powered, sniper scope, beautiful and deadly - in his hands.

The gun came up, and John froze. He heard Sherlock behind him - hear him yelp, felt him scrambling away. But he couldn't move. That was it. The gun that had shot him, he was sure of it. That was the man and the gun that had done this to him - had made him this  _creature_ , had forced it on him, and had then  _hunted_  him.

And he couldn't move. He wanted to - he wanted to leap at him, claw him, sink teeth and fangs into his skin and rend. He wanted to see him suffer.

He could see Moran smile, and he saw the finger on the trigger. The sound of the gun firing was loud, impossibly loud, and yet he could hear Sherlock howling behind him over it all, as though his mate's voice would drown out everything else, even the sound of his death. Then the pain bloomed, and he fell.

He woke with a shout, hand clutched at his blanket and heart beating too fast.

He grabbed his cane and limped quickly into the bathroom, where he wretched until his stomach was empty. With shaking hands, he turned on the shower, positioning the ridiculous plastic chair he had to use directly under the spray. He stayed kneeling on the floor as he took off his shirt, then carefully shimmied out of his pants.

The water was warm and comforting and when he closed his eyes, it felt nothing like blood, which was thicker and could never be confused with water, really.

One word echoed in his head.  _Mate._ He'd looked at Sherlock - in a dream, but still it had been Sherlock - and thought,  _This is my mate. My. Mate._

He stayed there, the water beating down on him until it was cold, hiding him from the thoughts that threatened to overwhelm him. Then he dried off and re-dressed, and made his way back to bed. He checked his alarm, and closed his eyes.

He did not dream again.

* * *

The next evening, John stepped up to the door at 221B, looking it over and thinking that he could always do much worse.

The scent of wolf was mixed with the sandwich shop next door, as well as a hint of perfume, and all of it combined with the normal scents and smells of the city. It smelled remarkably welcoming, despite everything.

He wrapped the brass knocker a few times, then turned just as he heard a cab door open, sending a familiar scent straight from his nose to his groin.

He held out his hand. "Ah, Mr. Holmes." When in doubt, formal always worked best.

"Sherlock, please." His hand was warm, even through the glove, and he seemed to hold John's hand just a bit longer than most people would. Of course, most people didn't turn into wild animals on a regular basis, so perhaps it was just as well.

Sherlock was standing close, too close really, and John glanced around. "Well, this is a prime spot." He glanced back, saw Sherlock retreat a step. "Must be expensive."

Sherlock was staring at him interestedly, a slight smirk on his lips. "The landlady - Mrs. Hudson - she's given me a special deal. We've a bit of history, and on top of that, she owes me a favour." Sherlock glanced out at the street, nostrils flaring subtly. "Few years back her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

He said it all as though this were nothing special. "Sorry… you stopped her husband being executed?" That was certainly impressive.

"Oh no! I ensured it." Sherlock gave John a closed-mouth smile, and John felt his throat dry up. They stood there for what was, in truth, only another few seconds, but which felt like an entire week as they stared at each other. John still could not flush out the rather lewd images pinging through his head, and had essentially given up on it for now. Instead, he stared at Sherlock, wondering if his brain was producing the same interesting visuals.

The door opened then, and an older woman beamed out at them.

"Sherlock! Look at you." Her voice was warm and motherly and she held out her arms. John wasn't certain what he'd been expecting, but Sherlock stepping forward with a large, genuine smile as he hugged her and kissed her cheek had most definitely  _not_  been on the list of scenarios.

"Mrs. Hudson, Dr. John Watson."

Mrs. Hudson turned and beamed at him. He smiled at her, and the moment their eyes met, John felt something stronger than static but just a shade weaker than electricity pass through his entire being.

 _What the_ …

"Hello, come in!"

"Hi, thank you." He manoeuvred himself up the steps and into the flat, taking care not to touch Mrs. Hudson if possible.

"Shall we?" Sherlock was just behind him, the warmth comforting after… whatever that had been. John stepped aside and waited as Sherlock brushed past him, taking the steps two at a time. John glared after the rapidly disappearing coattails in envy, then took a deep breath and heaved himself up each step, refusing to wince at the twinges and flares of pain in his leg. He absolutely would not be pitied for this, not by this man or that… woman, not by anyone, not ever.

He turned on the small landing in the middle of the steps, and looked up, pushing himself into movement. Sherlock stood in front of the door, anticipation blazing in his eyes. Once John reached the top, Sherlock opened the door with a flourish, stepping in and whirling through what John found to be a truly chaotic sitting room.

Despite the mess, it was… John let out a breath, feeling a quirk to the side of his mouth. The flat was everything his safe little bedsit wasn't. This was open, it was large, it was… it was absolute discord and anarchy. Nothing matched, nothing was new and clean, and everything was perfect, aside the stacks of junk. That, however, was easily fixed.

"Well this could be very nice." John turned slowly, taking it all in. "Very nice indeed."

Sherlock, who hadn't stopped moving since he'd opened the door, finally paused next to John. "Yes. Yes, I think so, my thoughts… precisely." He sounded so pleased. "So I went straight ahead and moved in."

"Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out-oh." John's voice died out as Sherlock's did. He stared at the man for a moment, certain he wasn't imagining the flash of hurt in Sherlock's eyes. "So this is-"

"Well, obviously I can um, straighten things up." Sherlock started moving again, grabbing files and papers and dumping them into boxes seemingly at random. "A bit." He picked up several pieces of mail, placing them on the mantel. A picket tool/knife jabbed through the paper and into the wood of the mantel, which John noticed was decorated with some rather strange paraphernalia.

He plucked up his cane, weight shifting uncomfortably to his left leg as he pointed. "That's a skull." He stared at it, wondering precisely how it came to be on Sherlock's mantel.

Sherlock spared it a glance. "Friend of mine." His face fell slightly. "Well, I say  _friend_." He moved away again, taking off his coat and scarf. John looked back towards the door, where Mrs. Hudson was just stepping through, a smirk in place on her face.

"What do you think then, Dr. Watson?" John watched her a moment, still trying to figure out  _what_  she was. She grinned, looking entirely too pleased for someone who'd only just met him. "There's another bedroom upstairs.  _If_  you'll be needing two bedrooms."

Oh God. She could see it, couldn't she. She could tell, she knew what he was thinking, she knew…

No, that was crazy, of course she didn't. It wasn't as though they had some tangible, visible connection - hell, John wasn't even sure what he was feeling and imagining was reciprocated. It could just be his imagination. Or his instincts responding to a new and  _very_  dominant wolf. Or maybe he was bisexual and hadn't realised it until now.

Or, maybe they did - maybe everyone  _could_  see something between them. Hell if he knew, at this point.

"Of course we'll be needing two." He tried to put as much confidence into the statement as he could. She glanced towards Sherlock a bit, then smiled brightly at John.

"Oh don't worry, we get all sorts 'round here." As John watched, something flashed in her eyes. Not an emotion, not a feeling - an  _actual_  flash, like lightning striking right in front of him.

"What… what are…"

Mrs. Hudson didn't respond as she strode past him into the kitchen. "Sherlock, the mess you've made…" Her tone was motherly, and Sherlock glanced at her with a smirk and rolled eyes.

"She's-"

"The pack witch." Sherlock grabbed a laptop from under several file folders and placed it on the table, shoving it back a bit and knocking several small stacks of papers to the floor.

"Oi! I can hear you, young man!" John's head whipped back towards the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson was bustling about, putting plates and glasses in the sink. "It's  _practitioner_ , as you well know."

"Yes, yes." Sherlock sounded bored as he flipped open his laptop. "I know, witch."

Mrs. Hudson's heals click-clacked rather loudly as she came back to the living room. "You watch your mouth or you'll watch it disappear."

Despite her words, she was smiling, and Sherlock looked as though he was barely containing a fit of giggles.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson."

"That's better." She turned and, head held high, went right back to picking up after Sherlock.

John had never felt so out of his depth before, even when he'd been strapped naked to a chair and informed that werewolves were real. His head was swimming, and he glanced around, finding a Union Jack pillow and tossing it into a chair, gracelessly flopping into it and leaning back. At least now, he wasn't in danger of falling over in shock.

Sherlock was still quiet as he powered up the computer, and the sudden quiet between the three of them was making John uneasy.

"I looked you up on the internet last night."

Sherlock paused, hands going to his pockets as he turned back to face John. "Anything interesting?"

"Found your website. The… Science of Deduction."

There was no mistaking the physical restraint Sherlock was exercising as he tried to look less than chuffed. "What did you think?"

Well, that was an easy answer. John made a face. Sherlock made one in return. It was possibly the most human thing John had seen him do thus far.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his  _tie_ , and an airline pilot by his left  _thumb_?"

"Yes." Well, at least he believed what he'd said on there, there was no question about that. "And I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone."

 _Jesus, what a prat_. "How?"

Sherlock said nothing, and turned away.

Right. That was helpful.

"What about these suicides then, Sherlock? Thought that'd be right up your alley. Three exactly the same…" Mrs. Hudson was coming back now, paper in hand as she-

No. No, she wasn't  _actually_  holding the paper. It was… floating, was the only word John had for it. Floating along in front of her as she wiped her hands on a small towel.

Shit, she really  _was_  a witch then. Practitioner. He'd call her anything she preferred as long as she didn't use that against him. John took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and tried counting to ten.

He got as far as two.

"Four."

He opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock, who was moving towards one of the windows that looked out over Baker Street - John could hear a car slowing down out there.

"There's been a fourth. And there's something  _different_  this time."

"A fourth?"

Well, it seemed being a witch didn't give you better hearing, then. One more piece of information John wasn't sure what to do with.

The door downstairs opened quickly, and whoever had arrived was taking the steps two at a time. He was also, John was relieved to know, entirely human.

A man with short, silver hair stepped into the sitting room.

Sherlock wasted no time with formalities. "Where?"

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

Sherlock affected a bored look as his rapid questioning betrayed his interest. "What's new about this one, you wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

"You know how they never leave notes?" Even the policeman sounded intrigued by this.

"Yeah."

"This one did." A thrill went through John as he watched Sherlock, who looked to be calculating things already. "Will you come?"

"Who's on forensics?" Sherlock sounded hopeful.

"Anderson."

John could smell it as well as feel it as the disdain rolled off Sherlock - definitely not who he'd been hoping for, then. "Anderson won't work with me."

"Well he won't be your assistant." The policeman was pleading without trying to look like he was pleading. John wondered - just for a moment - if he knew the truth about Sherlock, about what he really was.

"I  _need_  an assistant."

"Will you come?" And now, he'd given up all pretences and was simply begging. John wondered just how bad all of this really was, if the man was here begging for help.

"Not in a police car, I'll be right behind."

"Thank you." He gave a small bow as he said, glancing over at John and Mrs. Hudson before turning and running back down the stairs. The sound of the door closing drew John's eyes back to Sherlock, who was standing with his hands shoved into his pockets as a sly grin came over him.

"Brilliant!" John reared back in his seat as he watched Sherlock actually  _leap_  into the hair with glee. "Yes! Oh, four serial suicides and now a note - OH! It's Christmas! Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late, might need some food." Sherlock bustled about as he spoke, grabbing up his coat and scarf again.

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper."

"Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!" A door leading from the kitchen back into the stairway opened and shut, and John was left frowning after him, trying to figure out what had just transpired.

"Look at him, dashing' about.  _My_  husband was just the same, but… you're more the sitting down type, I can tell." John glanced up at Mrs. Hudson, who looked far too kind and motherly as she stood next to the chair. He looked away quickly, unable to school his features as much as he'd like. He was a  _werewolf_ , for pity's sake, and no matter what people thought when they saw his cane, he was  _not_  an invalid. "I'll make you that cuppa, you rest your leg."

And that was the breaking point. "DAMN MY LEG!" John regretted his outburst immediately. "Sorry. I'm… so sorry, it's just sometimes this… bloody thing." He whacked his foot with the end of his cane, shooting an attempted smile back at Mrs. Hudson. He knew it didn't work - never made it all the way to a smile - but she let it go.

"I understand dear, I've got a hip." She turned and began to leave to make the tea.

"Cuppa tea'd be lovely, thanks." John grabbed a newspaper, opening it up.

"Just this one dear, I'm not your housekeeper."

"Couple o' biscuits too, if you've got 'em." He flipped to another page.

"Not your housekeeper…"

A photograph caught his eye - it was the policeman that had just been here. The caption named him as DI Lestrade, and said he was the lead investigator in the strange suicides that had been happening lately. Well, at least it was something more than he'd known a minute and a half ago.

"You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor." John flipped the paper down quickly, seeing Sherlock standing in the doorway. He was pulling on gloves. "And of course, a werewolf. One who seems to understand his instincts."

John stood up. "Yes." No point in arguing any of that. Sherlock likely wouldn't have believed him if he had.

Sherlock quirked his head as he looked John over. "Any good?"

John didn't smirk, but it was a near thing. "Very good."

Sherlock gave him a quick nod. "Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths."

"Well, yes."

"Bit of trouble, too, I bet."

"Of course, yes." He unconsciously shifted his left shoulder, just a bit. The reminder of his  _trouble_  was enough to make it twinge. "Enough… for a lifetime. Far too much."

"Want to see some more?" Sherlock's eyes blazed with understanding. He  _knew_.

"Oh God, yes." John followed him out of the flat and down the stairs. "Sorry Mrs. Hudson, I'll skip the tea. Off out!" He hoped he sounded as eager as he felt.

"Both of you?" She sounded as though she wanted to be put out at this - but she was failing miserably if that was the case. Instead, she sounded almost as pleased as John was.

Sherlock turned back, grinning. "Possible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting inside when there's finally something  _fun_  going on!" He bent down and kissed her cheek again, and she swatted his backside.

"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent."

Sherlock kept grinning as he turned away from her and continued on outside. "Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs. Hudson, is  _on_!" And then he was bursting out onto the street, John following along behind him. He hadn't felt this free since he'd been running beside McMath in Afghanistan, four paws hitting the ground and wind and sand flying through his fur.

"Taxi!"

John slid into the backseat as Sherlock held the door, and they were off.

* * *

The cab was a bit more than John had been sure he could stand - himself, his strange and likely very mad flatmate who inspired such discomfiting urges, and a human driver who was probably oblivious to all of it. Just what a relatively new werewolf with PTSD and no clue what they were really doing at the moment needed. Of course, the energy and excitement that had surrounded Sherlock upon the DI's arrival had wiped out so many other thoughts and feelings and concerns that he'd been willing to do just about anything, really, as long as it kept him close to Sherlock.

And now here he sat, breathing slowly and glancing about like the caged animal he was, whilst Sherlock sat there fiddling about with his phone as though this were entirely normal for him.

Maybe it was. Maybe that was why he couldn't find a flatmate - no one would put up with him.

"OK, you've got questions."

Which itself was definitely not a question. John glanced at him feeling foolish and clumsy as he settled on a very simple and safe starter. "Yeah, where are we going?"

"Crime scene. Next."

Right. Stupid question, no matter what teachers said about them not existing. "Who are you, what do you do?"

"What do you think?"

So that was the angle. Make him think. Well, he could do that. "I'd say… private detective…"

"But?" Sherlock sounded… almost pleased. So, not a private detective. "But the police don't go to private detectives."

A smirk. He was pleased. Proud, even. It made John feel proud too. "I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world - I invented the job."

John was fairly certain that wasn't true - after all, police everywhere consulted with all types of people. Surely one or two had also been detectives of some kind… "What does that mean?"

"It means when the police are out of their depth - which is always - they consult  _me_."

"The police don't consult amateurs." The words were out before John thought about them.

Oh. That was not a friendly look. John refused to cringe as Sherlock's eyes widened but somehow managed to feel like pinpoints boring into him. "When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, "Afghanistan or Iraq?" You looked surprised-"

"Yes, how did you know?" John hadn't meant to cut him off, but this had been bothering him since yesterday, and he just had to know.

"I didn't know, I saw." John frowned, and Sherlock pressed on, sounding only mildly put out about it all. "Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. Your conversation as you entered the room-" John thought back, remembering mentioning something to Mike about how things were a bit different. "-said trained at Bart's, so army doctor. Obvious. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists - you've been abroad but not sunbathing. The limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic."

Just like Ella was constantly telling him. It didn't sound any prettier coming from Sherlock. But that last bit -  _partly_  psychosomatic. Perhaps he knew even more than he was saying now. And wasn't that just a comforting thought. John forced himself not to rub the heel of his palm into his leg as Sherlock kept going, mouth moving faster than most people could think.

"That suggests the original injury was traumatic - intensely traumatic, in fact. Likely the injury was what lead you to your  _current state_." John did cringe now - only slightly - and nodded. There was no mistaking  _current state_  to mean anything other than him being a werewolf. It was for his own benefit really, because Sherlock wasn't focused on him as he continued. "Wounded in action, suntan - Afghanistan or Iraq."

It… it was so damn simple, really, all spelled out like that. Things John didn't ever think about that gave him away - his hair cut, his stance and posture, the tan lines. Things John always saw, always remembered, always did. Things he'd never known anyone noticed.

But Sherlock noticed. Sherlock noticed so much.

"You said I had a therapist."

"With a psychosomatic limp,  _of course_  you've got a therapist."

John wanted to punch him, now. The thought was currently fighting with the urge to kiss Sherlock, to shut him up with lips instead of a fist, and John had a moment to realise this would likely be a normal set of feelings whenever he was around Sherlock.

It was something, at least.

"Then there's your brother."

"What?" John still had no idea where Sherlock had gotten the idea that he had a brother.

"Your phone-" Sherlock held out his hand, and John grudgingly placed his phone into Sherlock's grasp for the second time. Sherlock flipped it about as he spoke. "-it's expensive, email enabled, MP3 player. But you're looking for a flat-share, you wouldn't waste money on this - it's a gift, then. Scratches - not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner." John tamped down the fleeting feeling of happiness at the fact that Sherlock already thought so highly of him, and the embarrassment that he was nearly right about it being his only luxury - apart form his laptop, that is. "The next bit's easy, you know it already."

Sherlock turned the phone over in his hand, flashing the back of it at John.

"The engraving."

Harry. Oh, well… that explained the  _brother_  thought.

"Harry Watson - clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father - this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara - who's Clara? Three kisses says romantic attachment. Expensive phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must've given it to him recently - this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then - six months on, and already he's giving it away? If she'd left him, he would've kept it. People do, sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it - he left her. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to stay in touch."

Sherlock paused, and John took a deep breath, astounded. Not one of his friends knew about Harry and Clara splitting up. Not yet. Not even his parents were entirely aware of it - Harry wanted to keep things under wraps for now, claiming that she had still bee dithering on whether or not to be done completely with the whole thing - until last week, that was. But the way Sherlock talked, it was as though he'd been a fly on the wall for everything.

"You're looking for cheap accommodation, and you're not going to your brother for help?" John flushed a bit, hating this, hating Sherlock, hating the way his life was being read like a primary school book. "That says you've got problems with him." Ha. "Maybe he  _doesn't like_  who and what you've become, maybe you  _liked_  his wife, maybe you  _don't like_  his drinking."

"How could… you  _possibly_ know… about the drinking?" John was fighting to keep himself composed. He may not be terribly close to Harry, but she was still his sister, and family was still something he considered important.

Sherlock smirked. "Shot in the dark - good one though." Sherlock tilted the phone again, and John saw. "Power connection - tiny little scuff marks around the edge. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaky. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them. There you go, you see? You were right."

The phone was slapped back into John's hand, and John stared at it for a moment, bewildered. " _I_  was right?" He shoved the phone back into his pocket, not ready for whatever might becoming next but unable to stop himself from asking. "Right about  _what_?"

"The police  _don't consult amateurs_."

Sherlock looked back at the door on his left, voice and words saying he was pleased with himself and yet, body language almost screaming that he was vulnerable, scared, unable to look at John - who couldn't fathom any reason the brilliant git shouldn't be holding his head high and smirking.

"That… was amazing." John sat there, unable to look at anything but his hands or the seat-back in front of him.

"You think so?"

Surprise, and… a lack of confidence. John licked his lips, trying to figure out how his three simple words had brought on such a marked difference in Sherlock.

"Of course. It was extraordinary, it was quite…" He swallowed. "…extraordinary."

Sherlock looked away at the passing buildings. His eyes, reflected in the glass of the window, were sad and lost when John snuck a glance at him. He felt a pain lance through his heart, though he told himself it was just his shoulder acting up.

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?" John couldn't imagine anyone not being impressed by all of that.

Sherlock gave a tight-lipped smile. "Piss off."

Ah. John grinned. Well, that had been his second choice, really.

They were quiet a moment, and Sherlock shifted slightly in his seat. Well, might as well ask the big question, Watson. Who knows when you'll have another opportunity like this.

"So, uh…" Of course the real question was, how did one bring this sort of thing up? Well, nothing else but to go big or go home, and John didn't fancy ducking out of a moving cab at the moment. "I… are you…" He groaned, frustrated, and closed his eyes as his mind flooded with the thoughts he'd been trying to tamp down, which were not helpful at all in him being more articulate. His head fell back and he shuddered as he lost himself in it all, the wanting and desire and burning need-

A sudden pressure on his forearm made him open his eyes, head whipping back to Sherlock, who looked almost pained as he stared straight ahead and spoke so low that John was sure the driver couldn't hear him. "You… you must stop…"

John felt it, then. His emotions were hanging about them like a fog, a dense and heady perfume threatening to choke the life from them. The grip on his arm tightened, becoming almost painful. "John…" Sherlock's voice was strained, eyes squeezed tight shut now, and he was shaking slightly.

John took a deep breath, and thought about anything else. The feeling began to fade - slowly, but it was fading.

"Good. That's good, John. Like that."

"Oh, God." John leaned forward, hand going to his forehead. "I don't… I didn't mean to-"

"I know." The hand on his arm loosened a bit, then squeezed once and was gone, as though it had never existed.

"What did-"

"Later."

"But… you too?" He had to know - he just had to, he didn't care how much later they talked about it all as long as he knew that one answer  _now_.

Sherlock's eyes darted towards him, and John saw it - the same desperation he was feeling in Sherlock's presence. "Yes." The tone was clipped, unsettled.

It was something John could sympathise with.

"Oh… OK, so, we'll talk about this. Later. But we're both-"

"Yes."

John nodded, realising it would be bad to push Sherlock any farther, and the cab pulled up to a stop. Sherlock thrust some money at the driver, then hurried out, holding the door open for John.

"Did I get anything wrong?"

John closed the cab door, and walked along beside him. "Harry and I… don't get on. Never have." Sherlock nodded once, and John kept on. "Clara and Harry split up-" He thought a moment. "-three months ago? They're getting a divorce. And Harry… is a drinker."

"Spot on, then. Didn't expect to be right about everything."

John kept his face completely neutral. "Harry's short for  _Harriet_."

Sherlock stopped, and John took a few more steps, the grin on his face irrepressible now.  _That_  would show him.

"Harry's your  _sister_."

John looked around in front of him, pretending to be bored with the revelation. "Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?"

" _Sister_! Always  _something_."

"No, seriously. What am I doing here?" John was still resisting the impulse to grin. Sherlock might be brilliant and a keen observer, but that didn't mean that even he was unaffected by typical gender norms, at least sometimes.

Ahead, John could see the police cars swarmed in front of a ramshackle row house, barriers and lights telling the world to stay out. The area was going through a lot of renovations - it had to have been a lovely neighbourhood once, but time and disuse had gotten the better of many home fronts. John could smell the people that had come and gone. He grabbed Sherlock's arm before they got any closer.

"Sherlock, I-"

"I know." Sherlock glanced over at him, nostrils flared slightly. "You'd better be ready for this."

John took a deep breath through his mouth, let it out, and inhaled slowly through his nose. Right. _Stiff upper lip, soldier. You're going back into battle_.

He stared ahead, dropped his hand, and nodded one time. Sherlock straightened his shoulders, and they walked forward.

"Hello, freak."

John stopped short, feeling the hackles he didn't really have right now rising all the same. A woman stood in front of them, just on the other side of the white police tape. She was smirking and snide as she stared at Sherlock. John nearly growled, but Sherlock brushed her off.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Why?"

Sherlock looked back at her as though he wasn't sure why she would be asking that. "I was  _invited_."

"Why." Her voice was harder now, but she was still smiling in a way that suggested that absolutely none of this was funny at all. John felt an irrational need to step between them, to step into her space and force her back, to  _protect_.

"Think he wants me to take a look." Sherlock sounded comically shocked by the idea. John looked away for a moment and pursed his lips, trying not to laugh.

"Well you know what I think, don't you?"

"Always, Sally." John looked up as Sherlock ducked under the tape, nose working and not bothering to hide it. He looked at Sally interestedly. "Even know you didn't make it home last night."

He was just about to lift the tape for John when Sally suddenly turned, a hand out and stammering. "Uh-uh-uh, who's  _this_?"

"Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson." Sally turned to stare at Sherlock as though he'd suddenly sprouted another head. Sherlock kept searing at her as he spoke. "Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan." Sherlock gave her an unfriendly smile. "Old  _friend_."

"A colleague?" Sally did seem amused now. "And how do  _you_  get a colleague?" She turned quickly to John. "What, did he follow you home?"

John turned away from her, focused on Sherlock. He didn't think he could just continue to stand by while someone threw insults about. "Would it be better if I just waited-"

"No." Sherlock yanked the tape up quickly and turned his back. Ah. There's that dominant attitude. John was beginning to wonder where it'd gone. He stepped under the tape carefully.

Sally made a quick sound, then decided against it and shook her head, speaking into a radio as she lead them towards the house. "Freak's here. Bringin' him in."

And there was that word, levelled at Sherlock like a damn gun. Sherlock seemed to be paying it no mind as he looked about, taking in everything, but it burned at John's mind. Sherlock was definitely strange, and John had only just met him, but such outright rudeness from a police officer was  _not_  what he'd ever expected to encounter.

They were at the sidewalk when Sherlock stopped, and a man in blue jumpsuit stepped in front of him. "Ah, Anderson. Here we are again."

"It's a _crime scene_ , I don't want it  _contaminated_ , are we clear on that?" Looked like today was a day for meeting all of Sherlock's  _old friends_. Brilliant.

"Quite clear." Sherlock finally looked at Anderson. "And is your wife away for long?"

Anderson refused to be impressed. "Oh don't pretend you've worked that out, somebody told you that."

"Your deodorant told me that."

"My deodorant?"

Sherlock sounded amused as he answered. "It's for  _men_!"

Anderson looked very much like Sherlock had just proclaimed the street to be hard. "Well  _of course_  it's for  _men_ , I'm wearing it!"

"So's Sergeant Donovan."

John bit his lip and watched them both - the horror dawning on their faces. It wasn't enough to fight against the  _freak_  comments, but it was good enough for now.

"Ooh, and I think it just vaporised, may I go in?"

Anderson seemed to jump into damage control mode. "Now look, whatever you're trying to imply-"

"I'm not implying anything." Sherlock swept past him, lingering momentarily in front of Sally. "I'm sure Sally came 'round for a nice little, 'chat,' and just… happened to stay over." Sherlock paused at the door and turned back, eyes on Sally. "And I assumed scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees."

John couldn't help it - he looked at her knees as he walked by. He saw it. He knew. No wonder they seemed to hate him so much.  _Freak_  was probably one of the nicer names they had for him.

Just inside there was a table with equipment - more jumpsuits, those ridiculous booties to put over your shoes, gloves and even some goggles.

"You need to put this on." Sherlock thrust a jumpsuit at John, who began unfolding it.

"Who's this?"

John looked up to see the same man that had come to the flat - DI Lestrade. Before he could say anything, Sherlock answered. "He's with me."

John went back to the task of attempting to put the blasted thing on over his clothes.

"Yeah, but who  _is_  he?"

Sherlock's glare was deadly. "I  _said_ , he's with  _me_."

John had just pulled the jumpsuit up to his waist, ready to step in if needed, but Lestrade backed off his questioning with a simple shrug. John looked over to Sherlock, who was snapping on rubber gloves, and doing absolutely nothing else. "Aren't you going to put one on?" John gestured at the suits.

Sherlock looked at him as if this was the dumbest thing he'd ever heard, and looked back at Lestrade. "So where are we?"

“Upstairs. Some kids found her.”

John grimaced, zipped up the suit, and slipped on the booties.  _Kids_. He was sure Lestrade had meant teenagers, but still. Jesus. Kids shouldn't see things like this.

The stairs were winding and cramped, and each brush of another jumpsuit-ed body made him want to recoil and run. He kept focused on Sherlock, kept breathing in and out slowly, ignoring the conversation between the two men in front of him.

The scent they'd noticed outside was growing increasingly - nauseatingly - stronger.

Finally, there they were, in a medium sized room with lights in the corners - and a dead female werewolf laid out in front of them.

John stared. A werewolf. Another one. He hadn't been wrong. He'd wanted to be wrong. He'd never in his life wanted to be more wrong. But there was no mistaking the scent of her. It spoke of a pack, of connections and understandings and of something very basic that he'd only just begun to really understand. He briefly wondered about the pack here in London, but as he'd not met the Alpha, he didn't know if he was welcome in it. Yet another item on the list of things he'd need to find out. His list of discussion topics for Sherlock was growing by the minute.

Sherlock stood further in the room, one hand out as though he could simply let it hover over her and learn all her secrets. Maybe he could. John was done deciding that things weren't supposed to happen a certain way. From now, his motto was that anything was possible.

They stood there, him, Sherlock, and Lestrade. They stood there quietly, just breathing and letting Sherlock look. John opened his mouth, trying to escape the scent just for a moment. The taste of death - bitter and wrong and horrid - greeted him instead.

"Shut up."

John started a bit, glancing up. Sherlock was glaring at Lestrade.

"I didn't say anything!"

"You were thinking. It's  _annoying_."

Lestrade looked at John, who gave him a blank look in return. It wasn't like he knew anymore about this than anyone else.

Sherlock set to work, touching here and there, pulling things out of her pockets, slipping off her ring and replacing it. It looked so simple that it was hard to imagine he learnt anything at all, but when he stood up he looked pleased.

"Got anything?"

Sherlock smiled to himself, pulling off his gloves and reaching for his phone. "Not much."

Well, that would be debatable, wouldn't it?

"She's German." John turned back to the door and saw Anderson leaning against the frame, looking at the woman. He pointed to her left hand. " _Rache_. German for, 'revenge.' She could be trying-"

"Yes, thank you for your input." The door slammed in his face, courtesy of one Sherlock Holmes, who was tapping away at things on his phone with one hand as he walked back towards the woman in the centre of the room.

"She's German?" Lestrade looked skeptical.

"Of course not. She is from out of town though, intending to stay in London one night, before returning home to Cardiff." Sherlock stowed his phone and turned back to them. "So far, so obvious."

John felt as though he'd missed almost all of a conversation, and was now being asked to discuss it with someone else. "Sorry,  _obvious_?"

"What about the message, though?" Lestrade looked and sounded just as lost, so at John wasn't alone. He took some minor comfort in that.

"Doctor Watson, what do you think?"

John had never in his life felt so put on the spot. "Of… the message?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly. "Of the body - you're a medical man."

Lestrade spoke up again. "Well no, we have a whole team right outside-"

"They won't work with me."

"I'm breaking' every rule letting'  _you_  in here."

"Yes, because you need me." Sherlock looked incredibly smug as he said this to Lestrade, and John wondered if this had been a point of contention between them before.

Lestrade swallowed. "Yes I do." He looked at the woman on the floor. "God help me."

"Doctor Watson."

John was suddenly torn. On the one hand, he was a civilian now, and barging into crime scenes might be Sherlock's idea of a job, but John wasn't sure he'd be allowed the same option. And on the other hand, every fibber of his being was screaming at him to do exactly what Sherlock had just said - and he wasn't sure whether it was all his wolf's doing or not. He hesitated, looking back at Lestrade for something.

"Oh do as he says, help yourself." Lestrade knew he'd been beaten, and he John suspected the only reason he'd put up a fight at all was so that, should there be any problems, he could say honestly that he'd voiced his concerns.

"Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple minutes!"

The door closed behind them. John frowned as Sherlock regarded the body. "Well?"

"What am I doing here?"

Sherlock looked at him, almost shocked. "Helping me make a point."

"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent."

"Yeah, but this is more fun."

"Fun? There's a woman lying dead."

Sherlock paused, as though considering John's words. "Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper."

The urge to punch him was rising again, and John shifted, pulling his bad leg underneath him entirely as he crouched down and focused on the body in front of him. He sniffed at her, trying to figure out what might have done this.

Then he caught it.

"Sherlock."

He sat up and motioned. Sherlock glanced at the door - they were still alone - then leaned in and took a deep whiff. He pulled back and exhaled, then leaned forward and repeated the process. When he sat back up, he was grinning.

"Excellent, John."

John smiled back. Lestrade came in then, looking at them expectantly.

"Find anything, Doctor?" Sherlock regarded him with a cool, professional stare. John looked back down at the woman between them.

"Can't smell any alcohol on her."

"You know what it was - you've read the papers."

John glanced back at her, then up at Sherlock again. Of course he knew she was one of the suicides - they'd discussed it only an hour ago, in the cab ride. As he watched, Sherlock's eyes widened just a bit. So, not what he was after then. But something to say, to throw Lestrade off of what they'd just smelled on her. "She's one of the suicides?" He stared at Sherlock still, brain working faster than it had needed to in some time.

And then he caught it. It wasn't just that she was one of the suicides - it was that the suicides were all  _werewolves_. He looked away for a moment, dizziness and confusing settling in as he processed this. When his gaze came back up, Sherlock nodded almost imperceptibly, then stood.

John knew. And Sherlock knew that he knew.

Someone was murdering werewolves.

"Sherlock, two minutes, I said, and I'll need anything you got." John looked over at Lestrade, who was leaning along the wall now, looking desperate for something that might help him explain this.

"Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes - I'm guessing something in the media going by the, frankly,  _alarming_  shade of  _pink_." Sherlock was moving again, pacing about the room like an animal. John could sympathise. "Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London one night, it's obvious from the size of her suitcase."

"Suitcase?"

Christ, where was he getting all of this? John watched Lestrade floundering, and wished he had a life ring too.

"Suitcase, yes. She's been married for at least ten year, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers, but none of them knew she was married-"

"Oh for God's sake, if you're just making' this up-"

"Her wedding ring!" Sherlock moved back to point at her hand. "Ten years old, at least. The rest of her jewelry's regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring - state of her marriage, right there. Inside is shinier than the outside - so it's regularly removed. Only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work, look at her hands - she doesn't work with her hands, so what or rather  _who_  does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover, she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a sting of them, simple."

John felt his breath catch. "It's brilliant." Sherlock stared at him. He glanced at Lestrade, then at nothing. "Sorry."

"Cardiff?"

Sherlock looked at Lestrade now. "It's obvious, isn't it?"

And now John felt like a primary school student who'd been caught without his homework, and asked to tell the class about it. "It's… not obvious to  _me_ …"

Sherlock looked surprised by that. "Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so  _boring_." He stared Lestrade down. "Her  _coat_  - still damp. She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours; no rain anywhere in London during that time. Underneath her coat collar is damp, too - she's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket, but it's dry and unused. Strong winds - too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance, but she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat's still hasn't dried. So." Sherlock pulled out his phone, and John wondered how long it had taken him to learn how to talk so quickly without needing to take a breath - it was like he simply never stopped, never slowed down, once he'd started. "Where has there been heavy rains and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?" He held his phone out to Lestrade. "Cardiff." He turned the phone to John without looking at him, then slipped it back into his coat pocket.

"Fantastic!"

Sherlock whirled, stepping closer as though he were about to share a secret. "Do you know you do that out loud?"

Oh, that. John was embarrassing him. "Sorry, I'll shut up." He tried to look properly chastened.

"No, it's…" Sherlock allowed himself a small smile. "Fine."

John looked at him from the corner of his eye, and smiled back.

"Why do you keep saying suitcase?"

"Yes, where is it?" Sherlock was spinning around, as though he could conjure it simply by asking about it often enough. "She must have had a phone or an organiser - find out who  _Rachel_  is."

"She was writing Rachel?"

"No, she was leaving an angry note in  _German_ , of  _course_  she was writing Rachel! No other word it can be. Question is, why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"

"So how do you  _know_  she had a suitcase?"

"Back of her right leg, tiny splash marks on the heel and calf not found on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious, could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night. Now where is it, what have you done with it?"

Sherlock was beginning to sound very bored with his explanations, and John could sense the agitation bubbling just under his surface, threatening to break free. He wondered if he should make Lestrade leave, close the door, something, anything, if it would help Sherlock's irritation.

"There wasn't a case."

John froze. Sherlock froze.  _What_?

Sherlock's head swivelled slowly, until he was glaring at Lestrade as though he might have been joking about that. "Say that again."

Lestrade shrugged, arms crossed over his chest. "There wasn't a case - there was never any suitcase."

Sherlock was up, shoving between them. The contact made John close his eyes against the onslaught of desires.

"Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?"

"Sherlock, there's no case!" Lestrade strolled out of the room, and John followed, staring over the banister to see Sherlock rushing down the steps as he spoke.

"They take the poison themselves - chew, swallow the pills themselves! There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them!"

"Right, yeah, thanks. And..?" Well, at least Lestrade wasn't taking Sherlock's jibes personally now. John thought there might be hope for himself, if he could learn that skill. It would likely come in very handy.

"It's murder. All of them. I don't know how." He paused, looking amazed at his good fortune to have stumbled across this knowledge. "They're killings, serial killings." He clapped his hands excitedly. "We've got ourselves a serial killer, love those, there's always something to look forward to."

Lestrade, however, looked properly worried, and he didn't even know it was a dead werewolf - that would have right properly terrified him, John was sure of it. "Why are you saying that?"

"Her case! Come on, where is her case, did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case." Sherlock had made it down another floor already, and John was beginning to wonder if he should start after him now, just to save himself the trouble of trying to hurry later. "So the killer must have driven her here, forgot the case was in the car."

"She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there." John had done that before, for various medical conferences, before he'd enlisted and been shipped out. He thought back and wondered how he'd tolerate a hotel now, with it's high traffic and too many scents.

Sherlock shook his head at the suggestion, however. "No, she never got to the hotel - look at her  _hair_! She colour coordinates her lipstick and her shoes, she'd never have left any hotel with her hair looking like - oh…" He jumped back, hands in the air, looking like a child on Christmas morning. "OH!"

"Sherlock?"

"What is it, what?" Lestrade was leaning far over the banister now, trying to keep Sherlock in his line of sight.

"Serial killers, always hard, have to wait for them to make a mistake." Sherlock was talking to himself as he kept moving, making Lestrade shout down to him.

"We can't just wait!"

"No, we're done waiting, look at her, really look, Houston, we have a mistake! Get onto Cardiff. Find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were, find Rachel!"

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Of course, yeah, but what mistake?"

Sherlock, who had disappeared, popped back into view rather quickly. "PINK!" And then he was gone again, and John was left staring at Lestrade, who shrugged.

John made his way down the stairs getting jostled constantly by forensics workers and detectives, and he wondered if they'd be so quick to bump into him if they knew, if they had any idea just what he was.

He shimmied out of the jumpsuit and booties, dumping them into one of the collection boxes on the table, and stepped back outside.

The night was cool and crisp and felt marvellous after nearly half an hour cooped up in a decrepit old house with a load of humans, a dead wolf, and a very much alive wolf that made him question everything he'd ever thought he was.

He breathed in, closing his eyes and just letting the tension slip away. When he opened his eyes again, he realised one very important thing.

Sherlock was gone.

John looked around, trying to pick up his scent without having to stoop down and pretend to tie his shoes. He walked back the way he'd come, towards the police tape he'd ducked under before. Despite the openness of the street, there were still an awful lot of people about. His wolf was currently growling and trying to convince him to just run from all of it. He shushed it with the promise of tea and possibly something stronger.

"He's gone."

John turned to see Sally Donovan standing there beside the police car, just as she had been when he'd first seen her. "Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yeah, he just took off, he does that." She sounded… understanding. John wondered if he wasn't the first Sherlock had brought along.

"Is he coming back?"

Sally shrugged. "Didn't look like it."

"Right…" He looked back, trying to figure out where Sherlock had gone in such a hurry. "Right. Sorry, where am I?"

Sally looked at him. "Brixton."

"Do you know where I could get a cab?" Sally stared at him with faint disapproval, and he looked down. "It's just… my leg." He looked back up, daring her to comment.

She didn't, just stepped towards the police tape. "Try the main road." Sally held the tape up, and John ducked under it, shooting her a shy smile. "You're not his friend." He turned back to her. She smiled at him - it was almost sad, as though she was concerned for him. Concerned that he was throwing in his lot with the wrong person. "So who are you?"

John shook his head. "I'm… nobody." It was true. It had been true for so long now, he wasn't sure it would ever stop being true.

"Well, bit of advice then." John steeled himself. "Stay away from that guy."

He felt his back tense, and he fought to keep a glare off his face. "Why?"

Sally stared again, and John had a fleeting curiosity about what she'd be like as a wolf - dominant, to be sure. She could probably be Alpha, if she wanted. She seemed to be that kind of person - confident, in control, and wanting to take care of others. Police and military were rarely in it for the paycheck, after all. "Do you know why he does this?" She gestured back to the house. "He's not paid or anything."

That surprised John. Sherlock claimed to be a detective, but he didn't do it for the money. So just what  _did_  he do to pay his rent?

"He likes it." There was a glint in Sally's eyes. It was decidedly not kind. "He  _gets off_  on it. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough." John swallowed, not wanting to hear any more of this. "One day we'll be standing' around a body, and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there."

"Donovan!" A voice from the house - Lestrade. She turned away, giving him a moment to face what she'd said. He felt like she'd slapped him. His wolf was dangerously close to taking over, listening to her talk about Sherlock with such disdain, and he worried at his lips with his teeth. "And why would he do that?"

She turned back to him and smirked. "Because he's a psychopath. And psychopaths got bored." She said it as though it was the easiest truth she'd ever known.

" _Donovan_!"

"Coming!" She started to walk away, but glanced back at John once more. "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes!"

And then John was watching her backside as she went back into the house. He stared after her, unsure how to process everything. He looked around, let his nose work a bit. Sherlock seemed to have gone to the main road. Nothing else to do then. Follow the scent, get a cab. Whichever got him to Sherlock or home fastest would win - he was exhausted at this point. He turned from the house, from the dead werewolf and the cruel taunts of the police, and took a deep breath.

John looked at the road ahead, and began walking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh...
> 
> This chapter didn't want to play nice. And it's nearly 10K words long...
> 
> So. Mrs. Husdon's the pack witch (practitioner!), and I've got this nifty backstory worked out and I really can't wait to share that with you guys. The problem is, it won't be happening until a later story. BUT. It's there. More on her later, promise.
> 
> Hmm. Dead werewolves. That can't be a good sign.
> 
> Hope you guys are well. You ROCK. DFTBA, my darlings! Hopefully Chapter 4 won't be quite so taxing.


	4. The Dinner

The ringing phones were following him.

That was the most insane feeling he'd ever had, and sadly, it was the only logical thing he could come up with. No matter where he walked, what street he was on - the phones all around him were ringing. The moment he passed one by - or someone else reached for it - the phone would stop ringing, only for another one to start up in its place.

PTSD be damned - London's telephones were  _stalking_  him.

He tried again to hail a taxi, only to be passed over for the fifth time. You'd think a man with a cane would garner some sort of sympathy, but people just watched him limp along, whilst the phones kept up their trilling.

He sighed, standing near a red phone box, when it started.0

He stopped, turning to glare at it. It was just a phone box, but it was ringing - and had only started ringing as he'd approached.

Finally, the decision was made, and he stepped in, closing the door behind him automatically. The thing reeked of too many people, and he have to take several deep breaths through his mouth before he grabbed the receiver and pressed it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"There is a camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?"

John frowned. "Who's this? Who's speaking?"

"The camera, Dr. Watson."

John looked out the window. "Yes, I see it."

"Watch."

John watched - and the camera seemed to wave at him, the turn away.

Staring at a mad man threatening to change him into a werewolf as he was strapped naked to a chair in a foreign land was less threatening than this moment.

John watched as every camera that had been pointed towards him moved, facing away from him.

Between Sherlock, a dead werewolf, and this, it was turning out to be one of the most interesting, and frankly terrifying, nights he'd ever had.

"Get into the car, Dr. Watson. I would make some type of threat, but, I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you."

John heard the other end of the line click, and he slid the phone back into the cradle, watching the sleek black car that pulled up to the curb.

Oh good. He was being abducted. In front of countless witnesses. Because he answered a public phone.

So much for nothing ever happening to him. This would be one to tell Ella, if he survived.

The door to the car opened, and he slid in next to a rather lovely woman who was punching away at a Blackberry. She was also a werewolf. John's eyes widened as he took in the sight of her.

"Uh… hello."

She glanced at him with a bored smile. "Hi."

Right. Not the chatty type, then. Well, he'd had worse odds, and besides, she was like him. He wouldn't even have to keep that huge part of him secret. He could really do this.

"What's your name then?"

She didn't look at him this time. "Uh… Anthea."

He frowned. That was obviously a lie. Terrific. "Is that your real name?"

She looked at him like he was a favourite uncle who was just beginning to go a bit senile. "No."

He nodded. "I'm John."

"I know." She was staring at her phone again. Well, that was probably his three strikes for now - time to move on.

"Any point in asking… where I'm going?"

She looked at him again, and he felt as though he was a particularly amusing animal in a zoo. "None at all." She looked away, smirking. "John."

"Right." Splendid. Sherlock ran off and forgot him, he was threatened by a faceless man who could control the CCTV cameras all over London no doubt, and now he was riding off to who knew where with a woman who wouldn't tell him her name.

At least he wasn't sat in his bedsit feeling pitiful.

When the car finally stopped, it was in a parking garage on the outskirts of some dreadful looking neighbourhood. John swallowed around his rising pulse.

Just before he got out, the self-proclaimed Anthea looked at him again. "You'll be fine."

He stared at her, one foot already out of the car. "I… thank you."

She nodded, and once again her attention was on the phone. John took a deep breath, then levered himself out of the car.

There was a very well dressed man leaning on an umbrella about thirty feet ahead of him. There was also a chair. Lovely.

The man smiled at him, pointing at the chair in front of him with his umbrella. "Have a seat, John."

Everyone knew his name. He should start charging them for use of it, if they weren't going to let him use theirs in return. Well, he still had his snark.

"I've got a phone." He smiled, lips tight together. "It's a nice trick, and all, but… you could just phone me.  _On my phone_."

The man smiled. "When one is avoiding the detection of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discrete - hence this place."

John was close enough now, and he could smell it - this man was also a werewolf. He'd spent weeks back in London and not run across a single one - now they seemed to be everywhere he turned.

"The leg must be hurting you."

"I don't want to sit down."

The man licked his lips, and absolute dominance washed over John, weighing heavy on him. He struggled against it, legs nearly buckling. He took a deep breath in through his nose, and did everything he could to focus on the pressure coming at him. Slowly, it began to recede, until finally he could stand up straight again. He met the man's gaze, lips curling in a defiant smirk.

The man looked…  _delighted_. "Good. Very good, John. So the rumour was true…"

John didn't stop to try and figure out what he meant. He just wanted to get out of there, get back to Baker Street and see Sherlock and maybe - just maybe - have a moment of quiet that didn't involve other wolves, or dead bodies, or anything but a hot cuppa and his feet up on an ottoman.

The man before him was still smiling. "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?" John blushed quickly, which made the man in front of him quirk his eyebrows, nostrils flaring slightly. "Oh yes, but I'm not talking about  _that_." John closed his eyes and focused on breathing instead of simply rushing the bastard and punching him until something broke.

"I don't have one. I met him…" John's lips twisted together. Christ, it really had only been a day. "Yesterday."

The man tilted his head as he considered John. "Yes, and since  _yesterday_  you've moved in with him, and now you're solving crimes with him. Might we expect your happy announcement by the end of the week?" He smirked.

John pursed his lips and refused to respond to that. "So what are you, then? Another  _friend_  here to warn me off of him?"

"An… interested party."

"Interested? In… Sherlock? Why? I'm assuming you're not friends."

The man looked at him incredulously. "You've met him. How many  _friends_  do you think he has?" John had to concede the point. "No, I am closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."

"And what's that?"

"An enemy."

John was taken aback. "An  _enemy_?" The idea probably shouldn't be so surprising, but hearing it stated so bluntly had caught him off guard.

The man fiddled with his umbrella. "If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch enemy." The man glanced up. "He does love to be dramatic…"

Right. "Well thank god you're above all that."

The man smirked again, just as John's phone dinged to signal a text. He frowned at his pocket and pulled the phone out, opening the new message and staring at it.

[ _Baker Street - come at once, if convenient. -SH_ ]

"I hope I'm not  _distracting_ you." The man sounded almost put out - which made John smile a bit to himself.

"Not distracting me at all." John met his eyes again, wondering if his real meaning was coming through. From the look on the man's face, it likely was.

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"

"I could be wrong, but-" John licked his lips and refused to break eye contact. "-I think that's none of your business."

"It could be."

"It  _really_  couldn't."

He smirked at the screen, then put it away again. When he looked back up, the man in front of him had pulled out a small notebook and was flicking casually through the pages.

"If you do move into-" The man looked distastefully at the words in front of him. "-two-hundred and twenty-one… B… Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a…  _meaningful_  sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way."

A bribe? To move in with Sherlock? "Why?"

The man smiled, looking triumphant - as though John's simple, one word question had meant his compliance. "Because you're not a wealthy man."

And not wealthy men were often willing to take meaningful sums of money. "In exchange for-?"

The man watched him as he spoke. "Information."

John's eyes narrowed. "Well I'm guessing you already know what he is. Can't see what more you'd want to know."

A hint of a smile touched the man's lips before flitting off when he spoke again. "Nothing indiscreet, if that's what you're worried about. Nothing you'd be…" The man gave him a look. "…uncomfortable with."

The accusation hung heavy between them, and John swallowed.

"Just… tell me what he's up to."

"Why?" John didn't try to keep the venom from his question.

The man's expression was dry and flat. "I worry about him.  _Constantly_."

John snorted. "That's nice of you. Werewolf… solidarity, I suppose. Good. That's good."

The man ignored him. "Though I would prefer for carious reasons that my  _concern_  go unmentioned." He tipped up his umbrella, examining the tip of it. "We have what you might call a…  _difficult_  relationship."

John's phone chimed again, and he grabbed it to read the new message.

[ _If inconvenient, come anyway. -SH_ ]

"No." John looked up to make sure the man knew he was talking to him, not the phone.

The man made no arguments. "You're very loyal,  _very_  quickly."

John shook his head. "No, I'm not. I'm just not… interested." He turned away.

"Not even in learning more about yourself?"

The world around went silent for a moment as John took that in. When he looked back, the man's eyes gleamed.

"And you know all about me?"

The man pulled his notebook out again and held it up. "Trust Issues - it says here."

John stared at the notebook. "What's that?"

"Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?"

This was not happening. "Who says I trust him?"

"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily."

"Are we done here?" He couldn't take another word of it - whoever this man was, he was dangerous, and devious, and there was no question that he knew entirely too much.

Said man quirked his eyebrow at John. "You tell me."

John steeled his nerves and turned around, walking back towards the car.

"I'd warn you to stay away from him, but your emotions are almost screaming at me that you won't do that. Best tamp them down a bit, before you see him again."

He grimaced. It was bait - of course it was - and he was going to take it anyway. Whether it was to prove he wasn't afraid, or because he was genuinely curious, he wasn't sure. But he was going to reach out and take it.

His leg protested slightly as he quickly turned back. "My what?"

"Your emotions. Quite loud right now, really. It's all I can do not to rush over there myself."

John narrowed his eyes. "Who said I want to rush over there?"

The man smiled. "You did. Or rather, every feeling you're having right now is saying it."

"And how do you know that?" Answers - if he could keep this man talking, he might just get some answers.

"Because you're an  _Omega_ , John."

"That still really doesn't mean anything to me."

"So no one has ever told you precisely what kind of wolf you are?"

John stared at him, incredulous. "And just what kind of wolf is that?"

The man smirked. "You're an  _Omega_ , John."

John took a long breath in through his nose. "So you're saying… I'm, what? The least dominant wolf-"

"Oh no, quite the opposite, I assure you." The man stepped around John, circling him like he was a new car to be test driven. Hell, maybe that was all he thought of John. "You are something far more than that." John ground his teeth - that was what McMath had said, and it was still not more helpful than it had been before. "You are also a very rare, very  _sought after_  wolf."

The man stepped back into John's line of sight, and John suppressed a shudder. "Well, good for me then. Everyone wants me. Why?"

The man was standing far too close now, peering into John's eyes intently. "Tell me, have you noticed anything interesting when you're around other wolves? Anything that seems to be caused by you?"

John rankled at the accusation, until he remembered - the cab ride with Sherlock. He'd… he'd been thinking about him, and…

He stumbled away, bumping into the front of the car he'd been very courteously abducted in, his cane clattering to the ground and hands braced on the warm hood. "You mean I'm… I control people… other wolves."

The man walked over to him leisurely, as though they were out for a stroll on a bright summer's day. "An imprecise description, but apt enough for the moment." He stooped and carefully plucked John's cane from the ground, holding it out to him. John looked up at him.

"Thank you." He took the cane gently.

The man nodded once in acknowledgement. "I know this is a shock." He spoke softly as John straightened up, easing his weight back onto his good leg. "What you are actually doing is projecting your emotions onto others."

John swallowed thickly, his free hand rubbing at his eyes. "So I'm… making other people feel what I feel? Is that it?" He looked up at the man in front of him. "I'm taking away their free will, and replacing it with my own issues…"

"I can assure you it's far more complex than all of that. And while it may sound cruel, John, believe me - there will be a time, I am certain, when it will save you. And possibly save Sherlock as well."

John looked away again. There was something about this man - meeting his eyes was easy when John was angry. But when the man was being kind, it was unbearable.

"And you want that, do you? All part of your  _concern_ , I bet."

The man smirked again. "You'll understand, in time."

The man turned away then, twirling his umbrella as he walked away. The click-clack of heels behind him echoed through the area.

"I'm to take you home."

John heard his phone again as he turned to see the woman from the car, looking at him inquiringly. He smiled when he read the message.

[ _Could be dangerous. -SH_ ]

"Where to, then?"

He looked up. "Baker Street." He glanced back, but the man was gone. "2-2-1… B." He turned back to see Anthea smirking at him. He sighed. "I… need to stop off somewhere else, first."

"Of course."

She slid into the car, and he followed.

The ride to his bedsit was quiet, Anthea typing away on her Blackberry as he stared out the window, When they pulled up in front of the building, he barely recognised it.

"I'll only be a moment."

Anthea nodded without looking up.

The room was even more cramped than he'd remembered. He took a moment to think about the fact that he would likely not be sleeping here again, and smiled.

His gun was still in the drawer. He checked it - unloaded, no round in the chamber. Safety on, magazine full and ready for use. He slapped it in, pausing when he saw a small, clear plastic box glinting in the low light. He picked it up and stared at the silver bullet inside, remembering. Then he put it back in the drawer, shoved the gun in the waistband of his trousers at his back, and set off out again.

The car was still idling when he stepped back out, and the door opened just as he reached for it.

A minute after the car had started moving, Anthea spoke.

"You really are, then?"

John looked at her. "Really am what?"

She bit her lower lip. "An Omega."

He shrugged. "Seems so. Your boss is pretty certain about it."

She snickered. "He should be."

John cocked his head. "And why's that?"

She looked back at her phone. "Sorry. Can't say."

John sighed, frustrated. "Of course not. That might make my life easier."

"You'll know soon enough."

"Well that's comforting. Soon enough I'll know an awful lot of things, it seems."

They were nearly at Baker Street when Anthea talked to him again.

"Place your thumb here, please." She held out her phone, pointing at the screen.

John frowned. "What? Why?"

"Records."

He rolled his eyes, but complied. "Keeping tabs on wolves in London? Thought that was what the Alpha did."

Anthea shrugged. "Can't be too careful, can you? Now, you may want to close your eyes, and hold your breath."

"What, why-"

John had just enough time to see her reach up and push a button - he quickly closed his eyes. A mist settled over him, tickling his nose. He sneezed twice.

"That's why you hold your breath."

He opened his eyes, glancing out the window at the front door to 221B. He looked back at Anthea. "What was that?" She shook her head, and he glared at the seat-back in front of him. "Right. Soon enough." He opened the door. "Soon enough I'm going to just stop asking." He closed it a little more forcefully than he'd intended, and the car pulled away. He stepped up to the 221B, and opened the door.

* * *

Sherlock was lying prone on the sofa, left hand tight in a fist pointing at the ceiling, right hand clamped over the bend of his elbow.

The image made John feel sick.

"What are you doing?" God, was he an  _addict_? No, that… no, John would have smelled it, he knew he would have, he-

"Nicotine patch." Sherlock moved his hand, and John caught a glimpse of flesh-coloured somethings stuck to his arm. "Helps me think." Sherlock put his palms together as though in prayer, fingertips just touching his chin. "Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work." He closed his eyes.

John moved towards the windows. "Good news for breathing."

Sherlock scoffed. "Breathing. Breathing's boring."

John looked out at the street below. "Those things will kill you, anyways."

Sherlock chuckled. "I'd like to see them try."

John glanced back at him. "So… what, you're impervious to cancer now?"

"Obviously."

Oh. Well, that… that did make a sort of sense, really. His leg and shoulder had healed much, much faster and better than they would have had he been a human. "Oh, well… good, then."

Sherlock opened his eyes and frowned. "What's wrong?"

John was at the other window now, looking out. "Just met a friend of yours."

"A friend?" Sherlock sounded quite surprised, inhaling deeply and frowning.

"…an enemy…"

"Oh. Which one?" Sherlock looked at him expectantly.

John's jaw worked several times before he finally responded. "Your arch enemy… according to him-do people  _have_  arch enemies?"

Sherlock gave him a very serious look. "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

John paused. This could be very awkward. "…yes."

"Did you take it?"

"…no."

Sherlock turned back to staring at the ceiling above the couch. "Pity, we could have split the fee." He arched a brow at John. "Think it through next time."

John smiled. "Who was he, then?"

Sherlock stood suddenly, stalking towards him. He stepped in close and inhaled, moving his face side to side. "Interesting."

"What is?"

"Well normally anyone you met would have left a scent. But the only thing I smell is… you." Sherlock opened his eyes and met John's gaze.

"I'm never going to be used to this."

"What?"

"Smelling things. On other people. Or just in general."

Sherlock grinned and retreated to the couch, flopping back down and resuming his position.

John waited. And waited. "So…"

"So?"

John licked his lips. "Who was he? Your enemy…"

"The most dangerous man you've ever met, and not my problem now - on my desk, there's a number. I want you to send a text-"

"A text?"

"Yes, the number-"

John stepped away from the window. "What's wrong with your phone?"

"Don't want to use it - always a chance it'll be recognised, it's on the website-"

"Mrs. Hudson's got a phone-"

"Yes, but she's downstairs. I tried shouting but she didn't hear me-"

"You brought me here… to send a  _text_."

" _Yes_ , the-"

"I was the other side of London!"

"There was no hurry!" Sherlock looked at John as though confused about why he was upset by this. John glared. Sherlock swallowed. "John." His voice was a bit strained.

Ah, right - he was… projecting. He ground out a breath and spun away, stalking towards the desk. Behind him Sherlock gasped as the pressure of John's frustration subsided.

There was a little yellow sticky note stuck to a large stack of papers, a mobile number scribbled hastily on it. John plucked it from the chaos and stared at it, pulling out his phone and typing in the numbers.

"This message  _exactly_ : What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street. Please come."

John dutifully punched in the message, fingers fumbling occasionally over the buttons.

"Are you doing it?"

He glared in Sherlock's direction. "Yes."

"Have you  _done_  it?"

"Yeah-hang  _on_!" It was a wonder his little… ability… hadn't already accidentally killed Sherlock. John had a feeling he was either going to be able to control himself like no one else before a month was up, or he'd end up locked away in some government lab after tearing through the streets in all his wolfy-glory. He took a deep breath as he finished the text and hit send.

There was a flourish of movement from the couch then, as Sherlock quickly strode towards the desk, his eyes on something. He hefted a brightly coloured suitcase up and grabbed a small chair, spinning it so that he could place the case on it in front of his armchair. John frowned.

"Wait… that's…" John took a deep whiff - yep, that was  _definitely_  the dead woman's case. John stared at Sherlock. "That's her case."

"Of course it's her case." Sherlock interlaced his fingers, staring at the messy contents. John waited. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I didn't kill her."

"Never said you did."

"Why not? Perfectly logical assumption."

John sat down in the squashy chair he'd decided would most assuredly be his once he moved in. "Do people usually assume you're the murderer?"

He'd expected the smile - maybe even a little bit of laughter. What he hadn't expected was what Sherlock said.

"Now and then, yes."

Oh good. Not only was this man - his potential mate - completely off his nut, he was sometimes suspected of murder. Charming.

"Where did you find this?"

"You tell me." Sherlock stared into John's eyes. A challenge - lovely. John took another deep breath in through his mouth, closed his eyes, and began sniffing.

"Dumpster?"

"Do better than that."

John growled, but thought about it. "It… you both smell a bit like that house, but not  _exactly_  like it, so… somewhere nearby… same neighbourhood?" He opened his eyes to see Sherlock grinning broadly.

"Excellent, John. Knew you could figure it out."

"Figure what out?"

Sherlock pointed at the case. "The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention – particularly a man, which is statistically more likely – so obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake."

"And you, what - checked all the bins you could find?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

John rubbed at his face. "It's a wonder you don't smell stronger of it, then."

Sherlock frowned. "I only had to go tearing through the one - relatively easy, really, Jennifer Wilson's scent is particularly easy to identify, even under the stench of the refuse."

John shook his head. "And you got all that because you knew the case would be pink?"

"Well it  _had_  to be pink,  _obviously_."

John rolled his eyes - a trick he was sure he'd be doing a lot of in the future. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"Because you're an idiot."

John opened his mouth, but was cut off.

"Oh don't be like that, practically everyone is."

John held his breath for a moment, focusing on the suitcase.

"They've all been werewolves, haven't they? That's what connects them."

Sherlock looked back at John. "Tell me what you know about the fey."

John was startled at the subject change. "The… well, I… I don't know much-"

"But you know about them."

"Of course, everyone knows about them - they're… public, or…"

"They announced themselves to the general public, you mean."

John nodded sheepishly. "Yeah, that."

"And what was the reaction of the  _general public_?"

John thought back - it had been so long since the fey had come out, so to speak, that he didn't really remember much about it. "There was…outrage. And… shock, mostly."

Sherlock nodded. "More."

John's brow furrowed. "Hate… groups…" He stared at Sherlock in horror. "You think this is a  _hate_ crime?"

Sherlock swallowed. "The fey came clean about themselves, but some of them did so under duress - not all of them wanted to reveal themselves, and not all of them did, really."

John nodded. "Right. There's… they have… camps, or-"

"I believe in America they call them  _reservations_."

"Right… so, I mean… they all live on those, don't they?"

Sherlock grimaced. "They're supposed to, though I don't know that  _all_  of them do."

John nodded. "OK. And… what does that have to do with four dead werewolves?"

Sherlock licked his lips. "There's been talk of the wolves doing the same thing."

The room felt abruptly colder. The oxygen seemed to have vanished. John's vision went a bit fuzzy, and while he could hear Sherlock's voice, he couldn't really understand anything the man was saying. His world had narrowed down to one simple idea: he was going to be outed as a werewolf, and there was likely nothing he could do about it.

"John!"

He snapped back to the flat, to Sherlock and a pink case and three nicotine patches shining in the dull light around them. Sherlock's eyes were darting over his face, skipping around madly. When he seemed satisfied, he nodded.

They were quiet for several minutes. Sherlock finally broke the silence.

"No one will force you to do something you're not ready for."

John closed his eyes. "So we have a choice."

Sherlock made a non-committal noise. "For the moment, yes."

"The moment?" John cracked his eyes open. "How long will that moment be?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Couldn't say - not enough data. But, I suspect that the time is rapidly coming when our kind will be known to more than a handful of people, and from then it's only a matter of time before governments step in and demand to know  _everyone_  who's… different."

John swallowed. "Alright. So, back to…" He sighed. "Back to Jennifer Wilson-"

"Killed because she stood on the side of coming out, most likely."

"How do you know this? She wouldn't be part of your pack, being from Cardiff…"

"No, of course not." Sherlock fluttered his hand dismissively. "But - despite what you might be thinking right now - it's a small enough community that we tend to know of each other. There was a… summit, I suppose you'd call it. About six months back."

John tilted his head back to look at the ceiling. "And I'd wager this meeting was about whether or not the wolves should be publicly acknowledged."

"Indeed."

John looked back at Sherlock. "Were you there?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "It was a waste of my time."

"But you saw them there? The victims?"

Sherlock nodded. "Sir Jeffrey was rather vocal about his support of the whole thing. Jennifer Wilson was a bit quieter, but definitely in favour."

John thought back to the other victims. "What about Beth… Davenport."

Sherlock frowned. "She was against the idea - almost as vocal about her side as Sir Jeffrey was." Sherlock pursed his lips. "I can guarantee, our final victim was against the idea. Two supporting, two opposing…"

"What… would that mean?"

Sherlock grinned. "Not sure. Too many variables right now, not enough facts." He gestured back to the case. "Now - tell me what's missing."

John huffed - the subject changes were growing tiresome now. "From her case? How could I?"

Sherlock gave him a patient look - it was surprising, really, considering this was the same man who'd been pushing his buttons since he arrived back at the flat. "Her mobile phone."

John frowned, peering at the disarray a bit closer.

"No phone on the body, no phone in the case." Sherlock clasped his hands together, looking almost giddy at the prospect of a missing mobile. "We know she had one - that's her number there, you just texted it, now-"

"Wait, I-what?" John stared at Sherlock like he'd never actually seen him before. "Hang on - maybe she left it at home?"

Sherlock shook his head. "She has a string of lovers, and she's careful - she didn't leave it at home."

John stared at his phone, which was perched next to him on the arm of his chair. "So… why did I send that text?"

Sherlock was trying to look innocent. "Well, the  _real_  question is: where is her phone now?"

As if the whole thing was scripted, John's phone rang.

Number unknown.

John stared at it, then back at Sherlock. "She could have lost it."

The phone rang again.

"Yes, or…"

John stared at the screen as the phone trilled out another ring. "The... murderer…" John gulped as he held his phone. "You think the murderer has her phone." He glanced angrily at Sherlock. " _Did I just text a murderer_?"

The phone stopped ringing. Sherlock looked at it triumphantly. "Someone just found that phone, they'd ignore a text like yours. But the  _murderer_ … would panic!" He flipped the case closed and hopped up, grabbing his coat and scarf.

John let out a slow breath. "We should talk to the police."

"Four wolves are dead - there isn't time to talk to the police. Besides, the more humans involved, the more likely things will get complicated. No no, we need to handle this ourselves, before the  _Alpha_  takes over and muddles it all." Sherlock turned back to John. "Well?"

John gaped. "Well  _what_?"

Sherlock was winding his scarf about his neck. " _Well_ , you could just sit there and…  _watch telly_."

"You want me to come with you?"

Sherlock gave him a half shrug. "I think better when I talk aloud - the skull just attracts attention."

"So I'm basically filling in for your  _skull_."

Sherlock smirked. "Relax, you're doing fine." He glanced at the mantel. "Besides, Mrs. Hudson's taken it again." John glanced up - sure enough, the skull was missing from it's earlier place.

Sherlock was muttering now as he straightened his scarf. "Of course I'll have to retaliate. Think she'd notice if I took her shoes? Might even try chewing one up, see how she likes that-"

"She'd turn you into something horrible."

Sherlock smirked. "Probably."

John shook his head.

"Problem?"

"Sergeant Donovan."

Sherlock huffed. "What about her?"

John leaned forward. "She said… you get off on this."

John got a raised eyebrow in return. "And I said  _dangerous_ , and  _here you are_."

There was a whirl of expensive wool, and Sherlock was gone.

"Dammit."

John levered himself up, and followed.

* * *

"Where are we going?"

Sherlock had been easy to find and catch up to, though John was suspecting he'd waited a few moments after disappearing out the door of the flat. He'd smirked as John had stepped up next to him on the sidewalk. John had rather stridently resisted the urge to punch him directly on the nose.

"Northumberland street - it's a five minute walk from here."

Ah. "You think he's stupid enough to go there?"

Sherlock beamed. "No, I think he's  _brilliant_  enough to go there. I love the brilliant ones - always so desperate to get caught."

John glanced sidelong at Sherlock. "And why is that?"

"Appreciation! Applause! At long last the spotlight." Sherlock clapped his hands together. "That's the frailty of genius, John: it needs an audience."

"I'm seeing that."

Sherlock gave him a flat look, and John looked innocent in return. Sherlock turned around, taking in the sights around them.

"This is his hunting ground.  _This_ , the heart of the city." Sherlock looked up, down, everywhere. "Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes things. Taken from busy streets, but no one saw them go…"

Sherlock looked at John. "Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"

John threw up a hand. "I don't know - vampires?"

Sherlock smiled. "True, but that's not what we're looking for."

"There's… there's vamp-"

"Of course there are." Sherlock glanced at the street. "So. Who passes  _unseen_  in a crowd?"

John shook his head and filed away  _vampires_  for future discussions. "Dunno - who?"

Sherlock looked slightly mystified. "Haven't the faintest. Hungry?"

"What?"

John didn't have time to keep wondering - Sherlock pushed open the door to a cosy little restaurant by the name of  _Angelo's_. The server greeted them and motioned to a table, which Sherlock  _actually_  thanked him for - by name. John was about to comment when they were suddenly joined by a large man with a greying ponytail, who was grinning from ear to ear.

"Sherlock, always good to see you." The man shook Sherlock's hand. Sherlock smiled warmly.

John was beginning to suspect he'd fallen asleep in the arm chair at the flat and was just dreaming all of this.

"Anything you want on the menu - free - for you, and your date."

John's head shot up. "I'm not his date." He glanced at Sherlock, hoping for some help.

"This is Angelo." Angelo promptly reached out to shake John's hand. "Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade that at the time a particularly vicious triple homicide, Angelo was in a completely different part of town, housebreaking."

"He cleared my name." Angelo looked affectionately at Sherlock, who was now looking very anxiously out the window.

"I cleared it a bit."

John took in a deep breath and nodded slowly, his gaze travelling back to Angelo, who was looking at him curiously. A look came over him, and he grinned.

"Oh, you must be a bit like Sherlock there."

John stared wide-eyed at him. "I'm… I'm like him how?"

"You know." Angelo pantomimed sharp teeth and wolf-like ears. "I'll make sure you get a generous portion." He winked.

John's mouth fell slack. "I… alright… thank-you…"

"I'll get a candle for the table - more romantic."

"I'm… I'm not his date…"

Angelo laughed, clapped Sherlock on the back once more, then sauntered off to greet a few more patrons. John turned to Sherlock expectantly.

"He knows."

"Yeah, worked that out myself when he tried to mime being a wolf." John grit his teeth. "But  _how_  does he know?"

Sherlock looked at his fingernails. "Not important."

John was about to argue when Angelo returned with the candle he'd promised. "You should ask Sherlock here about the first time I ever saw him. He had his nose to the ground just outside my back door, and his-"

"Yes, thank-you Angelo, I'll…" Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, looking rather uncomfortable. "I'll tell him… all about it…" He pointed across the street. "Anything happening?"

Angelo chuckled and gave John a meaningful look, then turned back to Sherlock. "Nothing so far." Sherlock nodded, and Angelo left again. John turned back to Sherlock.

"Nose to the ground?"

"There's an excellent Chicken Parmesan here, I suggest you try it-"

"Were you  _tracking_  something?"

"Their house salad dressing is quite good as well, if you-"

"I wonder if he'd tell me the rest-"

"Fine!" Sherlock hissed out a breath and crossed his arms. "I told you I proved that Angelo was housebreaking. How do you think I figured it out?"

"You were tracking a housebreaker? Like a bloodhound?" John was giggling now. "Bet that was a glamorous moment for you."

"Shut up."

They were quiet a moment, before Sherlock spoke again."Angelo didn't have to… see me like that. To know. He just knows things."

John blinked several times. "Just knows things? Isn't that sort of against your entire being to admit about someone?"

Sherlock toyed with his napkin. "About the supernatural side of the world."

John nodded. "Ah. Well, that's… how does he know? Aside from you, I mean…"

"Bit of a sixth sense, if you go in for that sort of thing. It's how he figured you out." Sherlock took a sip of water as the waiter brought John a rather large salad, topped with grilled chicken. "He wasn't thrilled to find me out there, I admit. When I… shifted back, he, ah…" Sherlock chuckled. "He punched me."

"What?" John paused in cutting a rather large slice of tomato and looked up. "Why would he do that?"

"Thought I was demon, at first. Probably didn't help any that I was… unclothed."

John snorted. "Bet that went over  _real_  well."

Sherlock laughed quietly. "Quite. He was pulling out a crucifix and uttering prayers when I stepped closer. Think he was actually rather relieved to hear I was just a werewolf."

John snickered. "Not everyday you can say that about someone."

Sherlock grinned, his eyes still fixed on the address across the street.

John ate a few more minutes, enjoying the feeling of real food for a change - he'd been living on takeaway and microwaveable dinners for too long. He sat back, grabbing his glass of water. Time to bring up a different subject.

"People don't have arch-enemies. In real life."

Sherlock frowned, looking over at him. "What?"

"Real people. They don't have arch-enemies. Doesn't happen."

Sherlock immediately looked bored, turning back to the street. "Doesn't it? Sounds a bit dull."

John had to admit, it really did sound dull.

"What do  _real_  people have then?" Sherlock stared at John. "In their  _real_  lives?"

John picked up his fork again and pushed a piece of chicken around. "Friends. Co-workers. People they know, people they like, people they  _don't_  like… boyfriends, girlfriends…"

"Like I said - dull."

"So you don't have a girlfriend then?"

Sherlock stared at John as though he'd gone mad. John blushed.

"No. Not really my area…" Sherlock turned back to the window shaking his head. "As though that wasn't already obvious."

John ducked his head and took a bite. "Right…" He chewed, sneaking a look back at Sherlock. He was gorgeous, though John couldn't really figure out what it was that made him so. There was no particular part of him that screamed _handsome_ , but everything combined created a rather pleasing aesthetic. "So then… have you got a boyfriend?"

Sherlock stiffened in his seat. "John-"

"I don't mean… I meant… not me. Someone else." John looked back down at the table.

Sherlock 's hand on the table tightened, knuckles turning white.

"Which is fine, by the-"

"I know it's fine."

John looked back up and met Sherlock's gaze. He looked almost angry. John licked his lips. "So you've got a boyfriend then-"

"No." Sherlock shook his head slowly. "I've always considered married to my  _work_."

John forced a smile. "Right. Course." Sherlock nodded.

John pushed the food on his plate around a bit more, suddenly not hungry. The meaning couldn't have come through any clearer - whatever this drive between them was, it was going to be ignored. Splendid. Looks like a change in subject is warranted, then. "So how does he get them to take the poison?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock turned his head without looking away from the street.

"The poison." John speared another piece of chicken. "Silver nitrate - that…" John shook his head. "I can't imagine they'd be able to even hold a pill of it, let alone force themselves to swallow it. So how does he do it?"

Sherlock grinned. "I'll show you the police reports later - he masks it. Found a way to keep us from smelling it."

"That's…"

" _Neat_."

"I was going to say horrifying, but… sure." John turned to look out the window - there was nothing yet, no change in anything at all in front of them. When he turned back, Sherlock was watching him.

"You won't be one of the victims."

John frowned. "Alright, um… thank you?"

Sherlock kept watching him. "I mean it. I won't allow it."

A flush crept over John's face, and he ducked his head as he smiled. "Well, for what it's worth… I'd do anything I could to keep you from that, too…"

He glanced up to see Sherlock smile before he turned his attention back to the street.

"John, look - over there!"

John's head whipped around, and he twisted in his seat, staring at the spot Sherlock was pointing at. "What am I looking at?"

"The cab - nobody getting in, nobody getting out."

John watched - there was a man in the backseat, looking about. He looked nervous, maybe. His eyes caught John's.

"Why a taxi?" Sherlock was talking to himself - no wonder he got funny looks. "Oh, that's clever!  _Is_  it clever?  _Why's_ it clever?"

And now he was arguing with himself. Brilliant. "That's him?"

"Don't stare."

John glared at Sherlock. " _You're_  staring!"

Sherlock shrugged, grabbing his coat and standing up. "We can't  _both_  stare." And then he was out the door, leaving John to dash after him as quickly as possible.

The cab took off, with Sherlock chasing it, shouting at John often to  _hurry up_  and  _come on_  and one rather frantic  _we're losing him_! They dashed through side streets, into cramped apartment buildings that smelled of too man humans cooking too many dinners, down fire escapes and across rooftops. The wind was cold and glorious and John hadn't felt so free in weeks, not since he'd left Afghanistan and McMath and the mountains and caves and the ability to run with someone who understood.

But of course Sherlock understood. Running ahead, calling out directions and orders - John felt like he was part of something again.

It felt incredible.

By the time they caught up with the cab, and Sherlock realised they'd been chasing the wrong man, John couldn't contain his energy. They stood a slight distance from the cab, catching their breath.

"Where… where did you get this from?" John reached over and grabbed the ID badge that Sherlock had flashed. "Detective Inspector Lestrade?" He looked at Sherlock.

"Yeah, I pick-pocket him when he's annoying." Sherlock looked back towards the cab, and John's gaze followed - it was stopped again, and the passenger was motioning over a police officer. "You can keep that one, I've got plenty back at the flat."

John looked back at the ID in his hands, and started laughing.

"What?"

He looked up at Sherlock. "Nothing, just…  _Welcome to London_."

Sherlock chuckled, gaze going back to the cab again. John saw that the passenger was pointing at them, and the police officer looked ready to head their way.

"Got your breath back?"

John nodded. "Ready when you are."

Sherlock started running, and John followed right behind him.

This, he could definitely get used to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, remember when I used to write stories and I was really good about posting them regularly? Yeah, I do too. Those were good times.
> 
> So, uh, I'm not dead. Go me! But I have had: hairline fracture in left foot, severely strained tendon or ligament thing in right ankle, and some sort of infection thing that made the doctor look at me curiously whilst commenting on how strange it was that my Strep test came back negative. Then there were antibiotics. And on top of all that, The Consulting 6-year-old is doing super well in her gymnastics, and she's now going 4 days a week, so yeah, busy busy here at Casa de Ricechex.
> 
> Also, my laptop's power jack thing kinda... died. So I was doing the whole summon-demon-to-make-a-deal thing for a while, hoping that the blasted thing would just keep working. But now I have a shiny new laptop that is super spiffy - and runs Windows 8, which is a heck of a learning curve. Also, am fixing up old laptop so that it will hopefully be a decent enough spare, should I need it (have already replaced power jack, so that issue is no more, woooo).
> 
> But I have been working on these little old stories of mine, rest assured, and hopefully when the holidays are done (JFC could there be a more stressful time of year) I can get back to this whole writing/updating thing like I used to do. I miss it. I miss delving into these plots (ha, ha ha ha ha, oh, that was a good one, I'll have to remember that, claiming I have plots is just too cute) and exploring the characters and all these fun What If scenarios. And I miss you all. I've said it before, and I'll say it again - my readers are the best readers ever. You guys are the best, and I cannot thank you enough for all of your patience and support.
> 
> May you all have happy and safe holidays, and may you know that you are cherished and though of fondly. I love you, my darlings. DFTBA.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for Tell Me The Reality Is Better Than The Dream](https://archiveofourown.org/works/873812) by [moonblossom graphics (moonblossom)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom%20graphics)




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